


The Imposters

by Jax (jacquienicole105)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crimes & Criminals, Disguise, F/F, Imposters AU, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-05-31 06:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15113927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquienicole105/pseuds/Jax
Summary: “Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.”-George Orwell, 1984Clarke and the rest of the delinquents run a con: they get people to fall in love with Clarke and marry her, then steal all of their money. They're imposters and they're good at it.But then Clarke meets her next mark, a woman named Lexa who is as closed off as Clarke herself; and with just as big a secret. When Clarke finds herself falling for her latest target, will they be able to trust each other despite the lies? Will they learn that maybe, just maybe, life can be about more than just surviving?





	1. www.MrsCageWallace.com

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a prologue more than anything, I hope y'all like it.

“Claire, baby! I’m home!”

Cage Wallace walked through the front door of his modern wonder of a home. It sat in the Queen Anne district of Seattle, one of the more affluent neighborhoods in the city. Cage had money, _lots_ of money, and he liked people to know it. He displayed it proudly like a peacock struts with his feathers, a child with his shiny, new toy. And that always played a part in his decision-making. His house, his car, his haircut and even his wife.

She was the reason he had come home early from work. The sun was coming out, a rarity for Seattle Novembers, and he wanted to surprise his wife with a date. That was what great husbands did, and Cage was nothing if not great.   

Cage and Claire were going to be married exactly three months that Sunday and they were the best three months of his life. Before her, Cage had been successful but not due to his own merit--he was the son of the president of a Fortune 500 Company, after all. He was content but not happy at his inability to progress within the company. His father said he lacked the ambition and creativity necessary to take over, that he needed to prove himself before he was given more responsibility.

Then he met Claire.

It was the meet-cute out of only the best romantic comedies. The kind you tell other couples about over and over at parties because you never get tired of seeing the jealousy flash across their faces. They bumped into each other at the coffee shop Cage frequented before work (of course it was a coffee shop) when they reached for the same drink. They both drank lattes with four pumps of hazelnut, what were the odds? Because Claire was beautiful and captivating and completely interested in him _and_ she had the same coffee order. And when he learned that she was a school teacher that had just moved to the area, his interest was piqued. Then he got to know her more.

Claire was driven and charming and funny. She was witty and good under pressure. She commanded the presence of any room she was in but made sure to direct that attention to Cage. She was talented and knowledgeable as well, able to spout facts about any conceivable topic on a whim. She was everyone’s dream girl. Hell, even his father was smitten with her (the hours of conversations they had over art confusing him to no end).

On top of all of that, she made him work harder and better, whispering ideas for the company into his ear and never once taking credit. She made him a new man.

One month after meeting her, he was running board meetings.

One month after marrying her, he was named the president.

So he took off of work early (because presidents could do that) and went straight home to his gorgeous, brilliant, enticing wife.

But while there was usually a blonde wrapped in his arms by now, there was nothing.

Alarms went off in his head but he tried to remain calm and began the journey down the hall towards the kitchen.

Covering the wall were pictures detailing their short but exciting life together. A casual photo, taken on a trip to Portland shortly after they met, Claire laughing up at Cage while he laughed at the camera. (Lord knows why they were laughing but they were and they looked enviously, impossibly happy) Their wedding portrait was next, taken at the SoDo Park. Her dress, off the shoulder and A-line, was made of lace and his suit, a Hugo Boss, was custom fit. Her lips were painted with the bright red lacquer he had come to associate with her and his hair was slicked back like a modern James Dean. They looked like a dream. The final shot was from the company gala where his father, Dante Wallace, officially stepped down as president and CEO. They were quite the pair that night, dressed like Mr. and Mrs. Smith before the shootout, ready to take on the world no matter what came at them.

To Cage, that was how their entire relationship felt. Reality-defying, life-changing. A one-in-a-million kind of partnership. A never-before-seen, Golden Age of film kind of love. _It shouldn’t be possible to meet someone this perfect for me_ , he remembered thinking.

He continued his journey towards the kitchen, walking gingerly like a thief in the night; terrified that one misstep would cause the world to fall apart.

“Claire?” he tried again. “Are you home?”

Again, silence.

Cage couldn’t explain it, but something felt off. Like an animal sensing rain, the slightest shift in the air was making him twitch.

An alert from his phone caused him to jump before he settled. It was probably Claire, asking what he wanted for dinner. That was one of his favorite things about her: the ability to make a four-course meal seemingly out of thin air and with the greatest of ease. When he’d come home late and she’d be standing there in one of the dresses he bought her, veal or foie gras or something equally extravagant waiting on the dining table. He would take her in his arms, a compliment on his lips, and she would just laugh it away. Then they would share a nice evening together, talking and laughing and drinking before they retired to bed wrapped in each other's arms.

He pulled his phone out and it was an alert from his bank: _“Notice: Insufficient Funds”_

Cage squinted at his phone, rereading it several times in disbelief.

Another alert popped up from one of his credit card companies: _“Notice: Account Maxed Out”_

_What the fuck is happening?_

He dialed his wife’s phone number but an automated message immediately responded: _“We’re sorry. The number you are trying to reach is disconnected. Please try again.”_

He tried again.

_“We’re sorry. The number --”_

Cage started pacing. What in the hell was going on?

He rushed up to the bedroom, hoping without reason that this was some giant prank, a hoax carried out by his gullible wife and his asshole friends.

“Claire!” he yelled as he stormed, any ardor or worry in his voice replaced with rage.

He entered the bedroom and the first two things he noticed were the open safe--empty of all cash--and his wife’s jewelry box, also missing it’s usual inhabitants. That was when he saw it. Written on the mirror in her signature red lipstick: _www.MrsCageWallace.com_

He quickly grabbed the laptop sitting on the bench at the end of the bed, typing in the URL.

When he entered the site, a video popped up showing his wife sitting in their bedroom. Her perfectly highlighted, bright blonde hair in loose waves as he had come to expect, blue eyes shining, a familiar ruby glaze expertly gracing her lips.

_“Hello, Cage. You must be very confused. The credit cards, the checking account, the cash. I know it must be a shock. There is no easy way to say it, but here it is.”_

His wife looked down for a moment like she did when she spent a little too much money shopping or forgot to pick up his dry cleaning. But when she looked up, the charming guilt that usually colored her face was not there, replaced with a steeliness, a blankness, almost forcing him to accept this new reality.

_“You will never see me again.”_

Cage couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

_“The sooner you accept this, the better it is for everyone.”_

He felt his hands beginning to shake, his anger threatening to boil over.

_“Cage, you will ask yourself many questions in the days ahead. You will replay every moment we shared together, every person we met along the way. You will begin to doubt everyone and everything you know. You will even begin to doubt yourself.”_

Faces began to race through his mind. The new golf pro--with the dark, curly hair and freckled smile--who trained them together and seemed particularly close to his wife. The Latina girl who came to the wedding, one of the few from his wife’s side who could attend.

Were they a part of it as well? Were his instincts so off?

 _“It’s only normal_.” She smiled a little, the delicate, closed lip smirk that she gave him when he was wrong at trivia or when she sent him to get wine for dinner and he returned with red instead of white.

_“What will you tell your friends and family?”_

He blanched. He was the _president_ of a multimillion-dollar company. What would the board have to say about all of this? Why would they leave control of an entire company to a man who couldn’t even control his own wife? A man who rushed into marriage without all of the facts(or any of them, for that matter).

_“All anyone needs to know is that we were in love. That we acted rashly and jumped into marriage too soon. That we tried but we couldn’t make it work. People will accept this. But you will still want to find me, to punish me.”_

_Fuck yes, I do_.

Claire sighed and looked up at him as if she could read his mind. She probably could, she could probably predict each and every reaction he would have. Cage couldn’t help but think that she likely knew him better than anyone else in the entire world. And he clearly didn’t know her at all.

_“Cage, I want you to stand up now and go open the top dresser drawer.”_

He moved on autopilot, with the rigidity of a robot, and did so.

_“If you ever go to the police and try to find me, know this. One, you will fail. You will never find me.”_

He opened the drawer while she spoke to find a large manila envelope and immediately unpacked it. Inside was information about the company: the basically unpaid labor they employed overseas, the shortcuts they took with safety precautions, the politicians they paid under the table to ensure the EPA and other government agencies didn’t come down on them, many of these changes occurring when Cage began taking over. There were even pictures of different members of the board with young women who were definitely not their wives.

_“Two, everyone in your family, everyone in the world, will know what’s inside that envelope.”_

He flipped through the papers again, disbelief clouding his mind like one too many glasses of scotch.

_“Don’t put yourself through that. Don’t put your lovely father through that. Just, leave it be.”_

Cage returned to the computer, not sure what he was going to do but knew he wanted to look into the eyes of his devious, traitorous wife when he did.

_“Okay, this is the hardest part. Saying goodbye.”_

He looked in her eyes and for a moment, just a moment, he softened. Because looking back he saw _his wife_. She had that look on her face that he couldn’t remember staying angry at. Like when she got them lost in Portland or every time she stepped on his toes while dancing (she really was a terrible dancer). She looked genuinely sorry.

_“Cage, you must move on with your life. You are a strong man, an ambitious man. And you will get through this. I know it.”_

She sighed again and Cage felt his anger begin to swell like some wild, uncontrollable beast. How dare she sit there and sigh and feel sorry as if this was hard on her. _He_ was the one losing everything. _His_ pride and ego were the ones being bruised.

 _“Goodbye, Cage._ _I wish you luck.”_

And the screen went black. He tried to refresh it but the screen read that the link was terminated.

He tried again but received the same result. He slammed his laptop shut and threw it against the wall.

“You fucking --”

* * *

 

Claire Wallace was in a single stall restroom in the Seattle train station.

Her brightly highlighted blonde hair, styled in loose waves--reminiscent of a 50’s movie star--was being tucked into a wig cap and replaced with a long, curly, chocolate brown wig. The red lipstick her husband favored was being gently wiped off and dark brown contacts were being placed over her cerulean eyes. Claire Wallace’s daytime uniform--designer jeans, a blouse showing _j_ _ust enough_ cleavage, and three-inch pumps--were being replaced with ripped jeans, a band tee, a jean jacket and Converses. Her final touch, a baseball cap, and aviators, completed her transformation and when she looked back up into the mirror, Claire Wallace was no more.

She packed her bag--the money, jewels and other valuables already en route to her destination--and left the bathroom, walking up to the ticket counter.

“Hi, I have a ticket on hold for the five o’clock to San Francisco.”

The attendant looked up, smiling. “Your name?”

She took off her aviators and returned it with her own smirk.

“Clarke Griffin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! I'm trying a thing so here it is. I do have the story mapped out for the most part and good chunks of it written but it all kind of depends on my work schedule when I'll be able to get things out. 
> 
> See ya next time!


	2. Should I Stay or Should I Go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my goodness, the response to the last chapter was amazing and it gave me all of the warm fuzzies ^_^ Chapters won't always come out this fast but this holiday week has left work slow so here ya go. I hope y'all like it!

Clarke _hated_ wearing wigs.

There were several aspects of her job that irritated her: the fake laughter at bad jokes, the stereotypes she found herself constantly falling into, the boring hobbies she feigned interest in. But nothing, _nothing_ , was more annoying to her than the wigs.

It was a concept her friends and coworkers found hilarious yet unable to grasp. Especially because she really only wore them between jobs.

A buzz from her new, temporary phone momentarily distracted her from her twitching, asking for her arrival time. They never saved names or numbers, just to be safe, but Clarke always knew who it was. She quickly typed out a response and looked out the window only to have her phone buzz again.

_C u soon, mama. And stop messing with ur wig. ;)_

Clarke’s hand froze, she hadn’t even realized she was fiddling with it. She looked around suspiciously, although she knew that she was the only one at this end of the cart. She knew that. Her friends just knew _her_ too damn well.

She sighed and pulled out her copy of _1984_ , one of her favorites novels that her father passed down to her. Even holding it, its worn cover and buttery pages running between her fingers, made her feel closer to him. She’d seldom touched the book since moving in with Cage and she missed the overwhelming nostalgia.

Cage wasn’t interested in “book-ish” women. No, he liked women who loved rom-coms and squealed during horror movies; who read magazines and knew just enough about books to be aware but not knowledgeable. And he never missed an opportunity to tell her some small tidbit of information(one she usually knew already) and grin smugly when she positively fawned over his knowledge and his generosity for sharing it with little, ole her.

It was a strange juxtaposition, wanting a well-read woman who didn’t actually read. Most of her marriages had been like that—someone wanting the impossible—but that was what made them such easy targets. She had the unique ability to provide the unreal, the unattainable; she had the unique ability to provide someone’s _dream_ girl.

The cool girl. The enigmatic girl. The Lolita girl. The activist girl. The manic pixie girl.  

She had been all of them at one point or another. Loving this, hating that. Agreeing to this, refuting that. It was exhausting.

She needed a break, to be selfish. Her job required her to be every person’s ideal and they loved her for it; they fawned over how well she knew them and how much she had in common with them and how she challenged them _just enough_ to make them better. She was drained and she didn’t know how to tell the team that, how to make them understand.

Clarke mentally steeled herself for the conversation before opening her book to: _“Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.”_

Well then. 

* * *

 

It was an unreasonably overcast day in San Francisco, as if the Seattle clouds had nestled into her bones like stowaways and now radiated into her new surroundings.   

You think she would be used to it, spending most of her childhood and a good chunk of her adult life in New York City. But after a few years of living mostly in San Francisco, the northerner in her had lost to perpetually mild temperatures and overwhelmingly sunny days.

Clarke exited the taxi in Chinatown and breathed it all in. Coming back to headquarters always reminded her of her childhood. Perhaps it was the loud, Asian women bartering at street stalls or the smell of dim sum overwhelming her senses. It took her back to a fifth-floor walkup in another Chinatown, in another time. A place filled with laughter and bad jokes and home cooked meals. A place engulfed by love and light and too much hot chocolate.

It was a place she could never go back to, a place that no longer existed.

Clarke shook off the nostalgia and made her way into a seemingly abandoned firehouse. When she walked through the door, she was ambushed by a chorus of her name echoing through the apartment in greeting and the smell of tamales wafting through from the kitchen, reminding her of something incredibly important and dreadfully cliché: home is where your heart is. And her heart belonged to this group of delinquents: her messy, broken, loving, makeshift family.  

She looked around at them all, exactly where she expected them to be: Raven and Bellamy whispering in the kitchen, Octavia and Jasper playing Super Smash Bros. in the living space, Harper and Monty working at the dining table on a laptop, Murphy brooding in the corner with headphones in and a book across his face.

For the most part, she loved her job—the excitement and improvisation—but sometimes she felt so invested, so deep, in these made up people and their fictional lives, that she forgot who she was.

And then she came back.

It was as if her identity rushed back with the reminders, things so small and insignificant that they shouldn’t matter as much as they do. The dartboard that still had her winning score on it, her choice whiskey sitting on the bar cart in the corner, her worn down copy of _Disobedience_ sitting on the shelf.

It was so incredibly _normal_ , so very _Clarke_ and not at all _Claire_ , that she was taken aback by the rush of affection she felt in her chest.

“Hey, guys!” Clarke returned as she dropped her bag at the foot of the stairs.

The old fire station had taken years to convert but, with all of its quirks, it was home. The first floor was completely open with large windows, exposed brick, and restored hardwood floors. It held the living space, conference and dining table, and kitchen, while the second and third floors held the bedrooms and bathrooms. They had even converted the rooftop a year ago, though she seldom enjoyed it.

She walked to the back and into the kitchen first, drawn in by the smell of homemade Mexican food, something she hadn’t had since starting the Wallace job. She thought of the meals that Cage had assumed she’d cooked for them, always extravagant and outrageous, and how Murphy had been the one to come in to cook them all because she could barely boil pasta on her own. It was laughable, really.

Raven and Bellamy seemed to be arguing over something in hushed tones until Clarke entered the open kitchen. Raven was the first to step away and towards Clarke and while she smiled, she could still see the residual anger and hurt in Raven’s eyes.

“Hi, mama!” Raven grinned, wrapping Clarke into a hug. “I like the dark hair and eyes, very Anne Hathaway in _Love and Other Drugs_.”

“Yeah, well take a picture. I’m burning this wig in a minute.” Clarke grumbled into her neck. She’d missed Raven hugs; the smell, the firmness, the way they always swayed to and fro just a little like when they were young. It was a reminder of a childhood she longed to remember even if she couldn’t get it back.

Because Raven was fierce and strong and endlessly gifted. She was as cocky as she was brilliant, and stubborn to a fault. And she had endured more pain, more loss, than anyone Clarke knew. Clarke remembered when they were young—before she had moved away from New York the first time—and a tiny Latina with knobby knees, an absent father, and an overextended mother had moved in two doors from down from her and her family. She remembered how this girl kept her walls up a mile high and how she excelled in school even as she suffered at home. She remembered how they became unwilling allies, then friends, then family and how Raven eventually spent almost every night in Clarke’s apartment rather than her own.

Raven was her person, her confidante, her partner-in-crime(literally). The Thelma to her Louise. The Grace to her Frankie. The Christina to her Meredith. In the twenty years they had known each other, they had gotten into one fight. And it had been over a boy(because isn’t that always the case).

“Clarke,” a voice from behind Raven brought her back to present and she disentangled herself to see Bellamy standing there, a familiar, dimpled smirk on his face. While Raven reminded her of childhood, something both fond and simultaneously painful, Bellamy reminded her of adolescence and loss of innocence.

She remembered high school Bellamy, all jagged edges and dickish intentions, wielding the power he had at school with a bullying grip. She remembered the confrontations they’d had and the arguments that no one ever won and how she swore she would hate him until the day she died. Then she remembered university Bellamy, softer and no longer under the hand of his Congressman and ex-military father, how he embraced his love for learning history even while he pursued politics like his family wanted. She remembered seeing him break down when his father died and felt that pain in her soul, and how she knew they would be bonded forever because of it.

She took a step forward to be wrapped into one of his bear hugs. “Hey, Bell.”

“Raven’s right, Clarke,” Bellamy smirked down at her. (“Well that’s a first,” Raven whispered bitterly and Clarke could hear the venom in her voice, edged with frustration and hurt.) Bellamy’s eyes darkened but everyone seemed content to ignore it so he continued, “Maybe you should dye it dark for the next job.”

Clarke wanted to address the issue between her friends but knew that between her stubbornness and his pride it would be useless. Instead, she addressed her own issue, “About that, I was actually thinking of taking a break.”

That seemed to do it, put her waring friends on the same side. Unfortunately, it was not on hers and they simultaneously turned and said, “What?!”

“Jesus, guys! Keep it down!” Clarke shushed, looking over her shoulder to see if anyone had overheard. Fortunately for her, the only one who seemed to hear was Monty and when she gave him a small shake of her head in response to his arched brow, he simply nodded and turned back to the task at hand. “I’m just… I’m burnt out. I _need_ a break.”

Raven was the first to soften, understanding in her eyes. “That bad, huh?”

Clarke gave her a look. “I was a modern day 50’s housewife. I practically made that incompetent man president of his company and the only time I received thanks was when I made his martini correctly.”

Okay, maybe she was exaggerating. It wasn’t _that_ bad. After all, she lived in a mansion in a beautiful area in a beautiful city. She had everything _Claire Wallace_ could ask for: money, time, semi-autonomy. She didn’t have to work—in fact, Cage insisted she shouldn’t. And she had a decent group of friends. They were the wives of Cage’s coworkers; kind, albeit oblivious, women who had too much time on their hands but not enough to figure out that _all_ of their husbands had younger, more flexible mistresses, and that no amount of yoga or botox could fix their relationships. Cage didn’t cheat, but why would he need to? She was _the_ ideal woman for him, she made sure of it.  

And the sex wasn’t that bad. Sure, it was kind of vanilla but at least he didn’t want to be called “Daddy” or have some strange fixation with her navel (both of which had happened, by the way)

But it was a show. One long, drawn out play with no intermission. Every word, every movement was calculated. She even learned how to walk differently—smaller, more diminutive steps—and talk differently—“dear” became a part of her vocabulary.

How could she explain that to them? That every little change she made to become Claire—to become all of the people she pretended to be over the years—made her feel like she was slowly but surely losing herself. And that it _terrified_ her.

“Look, Clarke,” Bellamy said, once again bringing her back to present. He seemed enthusiastic, even more so than usual for this job and she couldn’t decipher why. “I get it,” ( _No, you don’t_ ) “but just wait until you see the next target The Chancellor sent us. We could retire five times over with the money from this job.”

Clarke blanched. _The Chancellor_. She hadn’t thought about him as a factor in all of this. He wouldn’t let her just walk away, not permanently, not without consequence. And certainly not without paying off her debt.

“We could be done? We could pay him off completely?” Clarke asked, a bubble of hope welling in her chest. She wouldn’t let it grow too much, though. She learned long ago, hope could destroy you as quickly as it could save you and Clarke wasn’t willing to risk it without all of the facts.

“That’s what we’re saying, Clarke,” Raven responded with kind eyes and a gentle hand to her elbow. “We could get out, _all_ of us.”

Clarke glanced over her shoulder at the others, at her family. Octavia was shoving a cheering Jasper for her loss, Monty and Harper were not-so-secretly holding hands under the table, a new and surprising development, and Murphy was on his phone, a rare smile gracing his face(Clarke had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with a girl but he hadn’t brought it up so neither had she).

And then she turned back around to her partners, her ride-or-dies. Raven and Bellamy looked at her expectantly because they never made a decision about the team without unanimous agreement between the three of them.

She thought about them all. The families they could no longer see, the lives they could no longer live, the futures they could no longer plan for. Sure, it was each of their choices to join the team originally but it was her decision that started it all, her mistake that got them to where they were. And it was her decision now that could get them all out.

“Fine, let’s do this. What’s the name of our next mark?”

Raven and Bellamy shared a smile, relieved and almost conspiratory, before Raven responded. “Lexa Woods.”


	3. Here We Go Again

**“** Alright, kids. Settle down, settle down. Jasper! That means you!”

They were gathered around the dining table, stuffed from one too many tamales and giddy at finally all being back together again. Apparently, Raven and Octavia had been gone the past week, setting up fake employ for their next job, and Murphy had just gotten back from God knows where seeing God knows who (though Clarke could venture a guess)

She looked around the table, her patchwork family all in their usual seats: Octavia and Harper to her left talking about going paintballing that weekend before the work really began, Monty and Jasper playing finger football across the table, Murphy at the far end on his phone, and Raven on her right, at the head of table, pulling out what looked like a gavel. 

She glanced over at Bellamy, directly across from her, and shared the “here we go again” look they had been giving each other ever since the group’s second meeting. 

A banging from her end brought silence and all eyes darted towards a triumphant-looking Raven who held the gavel casually, a 50’s gangster wielding her handgun.

“Now that I have your attention, I have an announcement to make,” she declared formally, sullenly, as she gently took Clarke’s hand. The entire room was frozen, even Murphy’s gum chewing had ceased. Eyes darted between Raven’s face, then Clarke’s, then their joined hands, twitchy as squirrels as Clarke tried desperately to maintain a straight face. “Your mother and I have decided to… consciously uncouple.”

A chorus of “Jesus, Ray” and “What the  _ fuck _ ” and “Shut  _ up _ , Raven” came in like a tidal wave as a giggling Raven dodged the multitude of paper footballs flying her way.

Clarke watched the chaos continue before casually plucking a flying paper from the air with a smirk, effectively ending the miniature Civil War. “As much as I’m enjoying this, I was just on a train for 24 hours and I’d really like a shower and a bed.”

That seemed to do it and everyone settled.

Bellamy stood and began handing out everyone’s folders, containing their responsibilities, aliases, new identifications, and money. As he walked around the table, he began his usual introductory speech, “Alright, guys. You know the drill: infiltrate, assimilate, establish. Raven will be going over the details but you all need to know, this is a huge job. The biggest we’ve ever gotten from the Chancellor.” 

A hush seemed to fall over the room. Mentioning the Chancellor was like mentioning atheistic beliefs in a church: startling, sacrilegious, rare. None of them had even spoken to the Chancellor besides Clarke and Bellamy, and Bellamy was their point of contact with him. He was Big Brother. A higher being. The end-all-be-all. Acknowledged but not discussed.  _ Never  _ discussed. 

“This is also, potentially, our last job.” Bellamy continued, and as questioning comments began to arise, he silenced them with a hand. “Our leading lady, Clarke, says she needs a break so that is what we are going to give her.”

All eyes turned on her and she shot Bellamy a glare, caught completely off-guard, as she began to defend herself. “It may or may not be permanent but we always knew this wasn’t going to be long term. We have lives we could get back to if we wanted.” 

They still didn’t seem convinced so she tried a more personal approach and began to make eye contact with several of her teammates. “Harper, you always said you wanted to go to law school. With this money, you could go and not be in debt up to your ears. And Monty. You always said that given the funding, you could revolutionize the weed industry. You could do that. And  _ John _ . We  _ all  _ know you’ve been talking to someone and that that is where you were until yesterday. You could finally have a chance to be with whoever they are.”

She took a steadying breath and looked down at her hands. She felt like she was on trial, at their mercy and completely helpless. It was the most bewildering dichotomy, being completely at peace with them one moment and completely on edge the next. 

“Look, I don’t expect you guys to understand. I mean, how could you? But being these people 24/7, playing these parts and relinquishing everything that makes me… well, me. It’s exhausting. And terrifying. I feel like I’m losing myself. And I… I…” Clarke saw her vision start to blur, the impending tears as oddly horrifying as anything else she had experienced, when she felt a hand on her arm and looked up to see Octavia’s fierce, green eyes looking back in understanding. 

And if anyone could, it was her. Octavia had been subdued most of her life until her father had died. Playing the dutiful daughter; never stepping out of line and never speaking out of turn. She equated it to living under the floor. She knew Bellamy was her father’s favorite and she had accepted it. She just never accepted the reason: she wasn’t a son. So she played her part and though Octavia never said it, her father dying was what set her free. 

“Guys, if Clarke needs a break, then she needs a break. She does more for our operation than the rest of us combined. And if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with  _ me _ .” Octavia defended, a feral glint in her eyes. One that practically screamed  _ try me, I dare you _ .

And Monty, never one to let a weird moment fester, asked, “So who exactly is our next target?”

This time Raven stood, her trusty remote in hand, as the screen behind her flashed on. “Her name is Lexa Woods.”

Clarke sensed rather than heard the noises and comments around her but she was far too distracted by the beautiful woman on the screen to care. She looked to be carved from stone, with a striking jaw and executive posture. Brown hair was pulled back and Clarke could almost imagine pulling it out and running her fingers through it. But it was her eyes that Clarke was most entranced by, a steely green that demanded respect and screamed authority. 

When targets were this attractive, Clarke’s first question was always: “What’s their damage?” 

But Clarke knew, without meeting her, without words exchanged, what it was. Because she recognized it. It was the same thing she saw in herself every time she looked in a mirror: a mask. Impenetrable, unbreakable. To keep the pain out, to keep the emotions in, to shield in every sense of the word. And, it would seem, this  _ Lexa Woods _ had perfected hers.

She was so focused, so intent, on looking for cracks in this mysterious woman’s walls that she hadn’t even noticed Raven trying to get her attention. “Hello, Earth to Clarke?” 

“Sorry, Ray, what did you say?” Clarke asked with an apologetic smile.

“I was  _ saying, _ ” Raven emphasized with an eye roll, “that while we have most everyone’s jobs lined up, we don’t know what to do about you. Lexa is too much of a stickler for her own rules to have relationships with coworkers so that is out. And she won’t go for the usual down-on-her-luck damsel approach. From our research, she seems to only date successful women but even so, the last time she had a long-term relationship was over five years ago.”

“What happened with that?” Clarke asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Harper spoke up this time, usually the one in charge of digging up the dirt and histories of their clients. “It’s interesting. I actually couldn’t find anything on the girl. We know her name is Costia and they met in school, but that’s about it. All records are sealed.”

“Sealed? Do we know why?”

Harper shrugged. “Even with Monty’s hacking, I couldn’t find anything out. It had government level firewalls that even he couldn’t crack.”

_ Interesting _ . 

“Nothing we can do about it now,” Raven stated, trying to get the meeting back on track. “Do you have any ideas, Clarke?”

Clarke leaned back in her chair, thinking. Always thinking. The cogs in her mind turned as she thought of what this woman, whom she’d never met but felt immeasurably familiar with, would want in a partner. 

“Do you mind if I read over everything and let you know? I feel like this isn’t going to be as easy as some of the others and I want to get it right.”

“Sure thing, Griffin,” Raven said with a smile, before directing her attention to the rest of the table. “Everyone, read over your folders and let me know if you have any questions. And if you see your given name on the new IDs, it's not a mistake. Most of us are returning home and even though New York is huge, we don’t want to chance running into anyone and having them blow our cover. We’ll have one more meeting tomorrow and then the first group of us will head out next week.”

Everyone began to stand, going back to their previous activities.

_ Bang.  _ The gavel landed with finality.

And when everyone’s eyes landed on Raven, she didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. She merely shrugged, “It felt right.”

* * *

 

Clarke found herself on the rooftop deck, staring down into green eyes that somehow looked cool and warm all at once.

She’d read her file, everything straightforward and transparent besides the mysterious ex. 

And strangely similar to Clarke’s own life. She was an only child, born and raised in New York like Clarke, though she grew up in Queens rather than lower Manhattan. She started school at Columbia for undergrad--like Clarke--before going to Harvard to get her masters in business. Meaning she’d lived in Massachusetts at one point as well, just like Clarke. 

It was uncanny to her, how they had been passing each other throughout their lives without knowing. Two planets, tethered to the same sun and destined to pass but never to touch. Well, maybe this was their chance. 

_ What do you want, Lexa Woods? _

Someone different, maybe a little eccentric and not in her usual circle, in order to catch her eye. Well educated, like herself, but not necessarily with the same background. Someone who would challenge her,  _ actually _ challenge her; someone with whom she would not always see eye to eye. 

A character began to form in Clarke’s mind. The owner of an art gallery perhaps, who went to Columbia then NYU. Who traveled the world before returning, unable to let go of the magic of New York. An artist in her spare time, going to the park to sketch when life was too distracting, no matter the weather. 

Someone who volunteered at hospitals and hated exercise and swore that New York pizza could not be beat, and she would know because she had tried it all. 

Someone who had strong opinions about everything and valued her friends above all else. 

Someone who could just as easily dance until the sun came up as stay at home for a week straight. 

And suddenly, Clarke was immensely, acutely jealous of this nonexistent person and their life. Because it could have been her life, had she not screwed things up so royally. 

She could have finished school and studied art and traveled the world. She could have jumped off cliffs and gotten lost and fallen in and out of love. She could have come back and met a closed off woman with impossibly green eyes and a sad past, and found that all of the things she had been searching for on her travels were right at home. They could have fixed each other in just the right ways. They could have laughed at the “almosts” in their lives before being irrevocably happy with the “definites.”

“Clarke, are you okay?”

Clarke turned to see Raven standing at the door of the rooftop, two hot cocoas in hand just like when they were kids. She hadn’t even noticed her friend standing there, lost in her fantasy.

“I’m fine,” Clarke responded before looking out again, the sunset fading over the San Francisco buildings.

Raven sat down next to her on the ledge and offered the mug in silence. That was one of her favorite things about Raven, that with all of her talk she knew when to lend her silence. 

It was reminiscent of their childhood; when Raven’s mom had had one too many drinks or Clarke’s parents had had a fight and they would sneak off to the roof and dangle their feet over the edge. Because when the world felt like it was closing in on them, they could go there and feel free. 

“So did you figure out who you were gonna be this round?” Raven asked casually, careful not to push if Clarke hadn’t.

“Me,” Clarke stated simply. “Well, the me I could have been.”

Raven squinted at her a bit, like Clarke was a puzzle she couldn’t quite figure out. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

Clarke stared back, as if willing Raven to understand. “No. No, I guess not.”

“Well, what would AU you do?” Raven asked with a grin, clearly pleased with her little wordplay.

“I think I’d own an art gallery, do you think we have the budget for that?”

Raven thought for a moment, as if crunching the numbers in her head. “I’ll have to double check with Monty, but we should be able to swing it.” She paused, seemingly unsure whether to continue. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Going home?” 

Raven nodded.

“Yeah. Are you?” Clarke asked. Neither of them had been to New York since the incident. It was strange how an entire city could feel haunted after a night.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Raven said with a nudge. “I’ve got you.”

Clarke smiled and laid her head on Raven’s shoulder.

“Always.”

* * *

_ One month later… _

“That’s the last of them, Clarke. Do you need anything else?”

Clarke looked towards the door where Murphy and Jasper had finished putting down the rest of the boxes. Her new apartment sat in East Harlem, just a few blocks over from where Lexa lived, and had that brownstone charm that she had missed so much. There were cracks in the plaster and the paint was peeling in places but Clarke already felt at home. 

“No guys, I’m good. Thanks for all of your help.”

They waved goodbye and for the first time in awhile, she was alone. She thought the silence would be deafening, that it would weigh her down like a heavy smog. But instead, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

She felt free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clexa is happening next chapter, I swear! Thanks for hanging in there, guys!


	4. I dare you (to love me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for hanging in there! This chapter is set two months after the end of the last one and three months from the beginning, so we are officially in early March! I didn’t want it to be too confusing since I’m kinda just jumping ahead.
> 
> On another note, I got a comment asking if I could post longer chapters/more often. I work full-time, lease a horse, and travel most weekends to see my girlfriend (long-distance sucksss >_<) so this is, unfortunately, one of the last things on my list lol. But I’ll try my very best to at least write longer chapters before I post them :) 
> 
> I hope y’all are enjoying your summers so far and that this heat wave isn’t killing you like it is me!

_Two months later…_

_It is too fucking cold_.

That was all Clarke could think when she was quite literally swept into a bar by the snow. It was eight on the dot and Clarke was perfectly punctual and fucking frozen. A spring blizzard had overtaken the city, covering it in a blanket of white and quiet(well, as quiet as New York could get)

But Clarke, much to her own dismay, was out. Because even though she hadn’t seen snow like this in years and had come to realize that she and cold just didn’t mix, this was _the_ night. The first night of her last job. The beginning of the end, so to say.

 _This_ was the night she would meet Lexa Woods.

She made her way over to the bar, careful not to glance towards the back where she knew Lexa was sitting with her coworkers. Clarke had to give it to her team, everything from her gallery--which was on the same block as Lexa’s boxing gym-- to her designated seat at the bar-- directly in eyeshot from Lexa’s spot in the back booth-- were mapped out perfectly.

As soon as she sat down she was approached from the opposite side.

“Hi miss, what can I get you tonight?” a familiar voice asked. Clarke looked up and saw Bellamy staring back at her with a small smile on his face.

“Bourbon, neat,” she responded with a smirk. Lexa’s favorite. Bellamy nodded and turned around to make her drink. He seemed right at home behind the bar, smiling at people and addressing them by name as if he already knew all of the regulars after just a month of working there. That was the job, though.

Bellamy was charismatic. He could make you feel as though the world revolved around you and with a flash of a smile and a bit of convincing, he could make you do whatever he wanted. It was why he was so good at this line of work.  

When a drink appeared in front of her, she flashed a smile of thanks and he returned it with one of encouragement, communicating his support through his eyes, before he moved to another guest.

She glanced over her shoulder briefly, even though she knew she shouldn’t. There she was, hair in a familiar low bun, shirt slightly unbuttoned: an almost exact replica of the picture shown during the first briefing. Somehow though, she looked even more beautiful in person. She exuded cool confidence, regal elegance, even as she sat in the booth of a bar that had surely seen better days.

Clarke felt like she knew the woman--she had studied her file for the past two months, after all--but there was still something missing, something more. Like she knew that she preferred tea over coffee and that of all the places she traveled, she went to France the most; that she had several tattoos and liked to ride horses and spoke five different languages fluently.

She knew all of these things but it still didn’t feel like enough. Why tea? Why France? When did she get her first tattoo or start riding? When did she start learning other languages?

Clarke was unprepared for the curiosity welling in her chest, something she didn’t usually feel with her targets. A little voice in her head kept saying, _“Maybe she isn’t another target. Maybe this one’s different_ . _”_ but she did her best to ignore it. This wasn’t the time to suddenly grow a conscience, not with what was at stake.

Clarke stayed at the bar, sipping on her drink as she lost herself in her thoughts, when a familiar brunette appeared next to her.

“Barkeep, another round for me and my friends,” Raven said jovially and Bellamy nodded at her with a smile in acknowledgment. It was then that she turned just so and saw Clarke out of the corner of her eye.

“Clarke?” Raven said loudly, false surprise evident in her voice.

“Oh my god, Raven! What are the odds?” Clarke said with the same enthusiasm, going in for a hug. “ _Good timing,”_ she whispered into the brunette’s hair.

 _“Are they looking?”_ Raven whispered back. Clarke snuck a glance to the booth and to no one’s surprise, the entire group, including Lexa, was watching as Raven hugged the beautiful, new stranger at the bar.

 _“Yep_ ,” Clarke responded, and when they pulled away Raven had the smirk of a kid who knew what they were getting for Christmas even though her parents tried their best to hide it.

“It’s so good to see you, Raven. What are you doing here? Last I checked, you were somewhere in California working with Tesla.”

Raven rolled her eyes, unbeknownst to her coworkers. It was part of the backstory and it was why she had gotten the job. It was a good thing she actually had worked there at one point and was friends with most of the upper management. Their references were indispensable when it came to their latest cons. Not that they didn’t get compensated because they did, and fairly.

“I was. I moved out here about three months ago. Needed a change of scenery,” she finished with a shrug. It was then that Bellamy had returned with the drinks and asked if it was on their tab to which Raven nodded while scooping up the drinks.

“Hey, are you here alone?” Raven asked though they both knew the answer.

“Yeah,” Clarke replied. “I just moved so I haven’t really had a chance to do the ‘meet friends and socialize thing’ quite yet.”

“Well, would you like to join us?” Raven asked, glancing back at the group. They seemed to have returned to their conversations. All except Lexa, who was studying them with a skeptical curiosity.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude,” Clarke replied, glancing back towards the group.

“Of course,” Raven responded and before Clarke could “protest” they were moving towards the booth.

As they approached, Clarke fussed a little with her hair. She wasn’t usually nervous when she met her marks. She was calm, collected and just the right amount of flirty. Pragmatic and practical. She could usually discern the kind of woman someone was interested in within minutes of meeting them, especially with the research the team did beforehand. It was why she was so good at her job. She had no reason to be anxious but the green eyes staring at her as she approached were doing a damn good job of making it so.

“Guys, this is Clarke. I hope it’s okay but I invited her to join us; we go back ages. Clarke, these are my coworkers.”

Raven went around the booth clockwise and introduced the group as Clarke recalled their positions in the company from her team’s research.

 _Lincoln Graham_.

Head of marketing. He had a way of understanding what people wanted before they did. Graduated from Chapel Hill top of his class and a close friend of Lexa’s, he had that calm gentility of a Southern man. He was handsome as well, all lean muscles and kind eyes that Clarke was sure had girls falling all over him.

_Indra Thomas._

Head of legal. A master litigator in the courtroom, she joined Lexa’s company at its inception. Steely-eyed and straight-backed, she was untrusting of others almost to a fault. _She’s one to look out for_ , she remembered Harper saying.

_Gustus Greene._

Head of security. A family friend of Lexa’s and a guardian of sorts since she was a kid. Apparently, his bark was bigger than his bite, which was lucky for Clarke because he towered over her by a foot.

 _Anya Petrov_.

COO. Lexa’s right-hand and best friend. She was Mongolian-Russian born and moved to the States with her family in search of a better life. She had the same unwavering confidence in her eyes as Lexa. _She’s only smiled at me once_ , she remembers Raven telling her, _but it’s kind of hot._

The only person who seemed to be missing was her CFO, Titus Ward, one of her old professors from Harvard who left teaching when she started her company.

Clarke remembered watching an interview during her research in which a reporter suggested nepotism. She could remember the brunette’s response vividly: _There are few you can trust with your life and legacy. I chose these people because they will support me in all aspects of my life._

It struck a chord with Clarke, who did the exact same thing with her group of delinquents. They were her people, the ones she trusted when the rest of the world was against them, and she couldn’t think of anyone else she would want to surround herself with more than them.

“And this, Clarke, is my boss. Lexa Woods.”

Blue met green and it suddenly felt like the world was coming into focus. (Seriously, the edges got a little blurry) She studied her like a newly discovered star: curiously, cautiously, and with slight awe. No, pictures definitely did not do this woman justice. Her hair had more curl to it, probably from the melting snow wetting it; her eyes were warmer in this light, closer to a gem than to steel; her jaw, sharp like a knife, was cutting Clarke in just the right way; collarbones and hands both delicate but obviously strong. And she had fingers that Clarke couldn’t help but transfix on, her mind going to far darker places than this dim bar, to what the other woman could do with those fingers.

She felt a small jab in her side from Raven, “Um, Clarke?”

“Hmm? Oh yeah, um it’s nice to meet you all,” Clarke said lamely. _Great first impression, Griffin._

Lexa seemed amused, though. “Please, join us Miss…?”

“Gilmore,” Clarke said as she sat on the end, directly across from Lexa. It was her maternal grandparent’s surname, the name she adopted when she came back to the city for school. But that’s another story for another time.

“It’s nice to meet you then, Miss Gilmore.”

“Please, call me Clarke.” she interrupted.

“Clarke,” Lexa tested the name. Clarke felt a shiver at the pronunciation: rolling then sharp at the end, like a shot of fine liquor. “Forgive me for saying, _Clarke_ , but you look awfully familiar. Have we met before?”

Clarke concealed her smirk. The team had done that intentionally in order to subconsciously acclimate Lexa to Clarke’s presence. Every time she went boxing in the past few weeks, Clarke made sure she was around: at the corner coffee shop, adjusting her gallery displays, walking to the subway. Just so that Lexa would catch a glimpse of her, a presence that was always there, even if she didn’t know it yet.

“I don’t think so, I just moved back to the city.”

Anya asked the next question, eyes so intense Clarke was unsure whether she was trying to figure her out or burn a hole through her skull. “Moved back from where?”

She knew she was in the hot seat, Lexa’s closest and dearest trying to discern whether their newest addition was friend or foe. “That’s a complicated question,” she said with a small laugh and conspiratorial smile, “Most recently though, I was in Tibet and before that Morocco.”

“Morocco?” Lexa asked again.

Clarke saw it for just a moment, a flash of sadness, of wistfulness, in her eyes and she couldn’t help but wonder what it meant. “Yeah, um, it’s an amazing city. I always feel transported to another time when I’m there.”

“And what exactly made you decide to move back?” Indra asked this time, her brow raised in more of a threat than an implication of the question.

 _Harper was right_ , Clarke thought, _I’ll have to be careful around her._

“After traveling for so long, I thought it was time to come back to my roots. I think it was Steinbeck who said, ‘Once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no place else is good enough.’” Clarke returned her eyes to Lexa’s, for support or in challenge she couldn’t decide, “Wouldn’t you agree, Ms. Woods?”

Lexa studied her for a moment, sizing her up but clearly impressed at Clarke’s tidbit of knowledge, and addressed the challenge head-on, “Lexa, please,” she started. For some reason, it seemed like a privilege to use the CEO’s first name so quickly and casually, “And I think I would have to disagree. Home is wherever you are, where your people are, no matter where you are or have been previously.”

“And have you made this home elsewhere, _Lexa_?” Clarke asked as she leaned forward. She knew Lexa liked a challenge. She had been in debate at Harvard and played countless competitive sports through the years.

But instead of rising to it, Lexa looked away, and Clarke saw it again: that flash of pain, of wanting, before her expression neutralized and it was as if it had never been there at all. “Once, but it’s all in the past now.”

The table seemed quiet and stiff, as if everyone was collectively holding their breath. Clarke wanted to look at Raven, to ask her what was happening and what they had somehow missed.

 _It must be the ex,_ Clarke realized. That was the only explanation, the only thing that they could not excavate during the detailed investigation performed by the team.

“So Clarke, now that your back, what is it exactly that you’re doing?” Lincoln asked with a gentle smile, attempting to break the tension.

“Um, yeah,” Clarke said, breaking her gaze from Lexa’s profile, “So I actually opened an art gallery in Bushwick. Nothing flashy, just some local artists that deserve a chance to showcase their art.”

“That’s impressive,” Lincoln said with a smile. “I’m always looking for new art to delve into. Anyone I might know?”

Clarke smiled a little thinking about her passion project. She hadn’t planned on getting so invested in her backstory, it was just a cover after all, but working with the community as she had made it strangely difficult not to. “Probably not. They’re all homeless people that I met once I got back. Incredibly talented people, really. One is a graffiti artist that I commissioned a few larger pieces from, one is a sculpturist who solely uses things she finds on the street, and one is a performance artist who is tackling sexual violence against homeless people. Honestly, I’m honored to know them, they are some of the strongest people I have ever met.”

She looked up from her ramble and the table had looks that ranged from impressed to sympathetic. Even Indra’s eyes had softened. Not that she cared, the only person she needed to affect was Lexa and her warm eyes, liquid emerald in the light, were definitely a good sign.

“Well, that is certainly impressive Miss Gil…” Lexa paused at Clarke’s raised brow, “ _Clarke._  It’s not always easy finding something you’re passionate about that can also be lucrative.”

“Thank you, _Lexa_. And we’ll see about that second part,” Clarke replied wistfully, “The gallery’s official opening is next week. I do hope you all will come.”

Raven chimed in this time, “I’m sure we wouldn’t miss it, right boss?”

Lexa hesitated but nodded all the same, “I’m sure we can all find the time and use a break.”

“I wonder whose fault that is,” Anya mumbled under her breath as the table burst into chuckles and Lexa shoved Anya lightly.

“Good,” Clarke said with a laugh, any tension officially gone, “I think I still have Raven’s number, I’ll forward her the details.”

Everyone seemed to be in consensus and the group proceeded to break up into smaller conversations.

After 15 minutes or so of Raven and Clarke “catching up,” Clarke noticed Lexa eyeing the pool table. _This is my in_ , she thought to herself.

“Do you play?” Clarke asked. She knew the answer, Lexa had played since college, several pictures the team had dug up featured a pool cue and a table in the background.

Lexa smirked at her and Clarke swore her insides melted a little. “I’ve dabbled.”

 _Modest too, I see_. Clarke smirked back, “Well, wanna dabble with me? I haven’t played since Shanghai so I’m a little rusty.”

Lexa hesitated so Clarke put her elbows on the table and leaned in. “Come on, Woods, I dare you.”

There was a glint in her eyes, that competitiveness that Clarke knew was there bubbling to the surface. “Alright, Gilmore, bring it on.”


	5. (Don't) Let It Go

“Gooooooooooaaaallllllll!”

The triumphant shout (there really was no other word for it) could be heard throughout the bar and several faces, whether in annoyance or amusement or some strange combination of the two, turned to see an ecstatic Raven cheering as though she’d just won the World Cup.

Clarke and Lexa had played several games before coming to the realization that they were simply too evenly matched. They talked and drank and flirted and it had all been so perfectly and utterly mundane Clarke all but forgot she was supposed to be playing a part.

Because the more time she spent with Lexa, the more she realized how intelligent, sarcastic and effortlessly beautiful the other woman was. It was easy, too easy, Clarke was coming to find. Lexa would crack a joke and Clarke didn’t have to fake laughter, it came unbidden. She would tell Clarke about her business and Clarke didn’t have to feign interest, she leaned into the information eagerly. Lexa was engaging and intriguing and unstoppable; her strength and confidence rolled off of her in waves and it was intoxicating.

Still, Clarke could sense her walls, invisible and impossibly strong, and her reservation, almost tangible with its presence. Because even as Lexa talked and drank and flirted, she was still holding back. To avoid pain or regret or from feeling anything, Clarke wasn’t sure.

But Clarke empathized, more than words could express, and it somehow made the complex woman before her even more intriguing. And Clarke could have none of that.

 _She’s just a target_ , she repeated to herself. _She’s just a target. She’s just a target._

So after an even amount of wins, they decided to challenge Raven and Anya to a game of doubles, which turned into more of a spectacle than either had anticipated.

Because while Raven was immensely brilliant and immeasurably gifted, the woman could not play pool to save her life. It was like watching a giraffe walk for the first time: awkward, disconcerting, and kind of adorable. So when she got her first ball in—keep in mind, it wasn’t even the right one—she had to let the entire bar know. It was impossible not to smile as she proceeded to make her victory lap around the room, even stopping to order a round of shots for the table, to which Bellamy gladly obliged. Even Anya had cracked an exasperated grin.

Clarke made her way around the table to stand next to Lexa as the brunette continued to watch on with a small shake of her head.

“Has she always been like this?” Lexa asked, amusement coloring her voice.

“Worse, if you can believe it,” Clarke replied with a laugh, “I remember this one time in middle school, she decided we should challenge a group of high school boys to a game of laser tag. Apparently, they didn’t think we should play at all because we were girls. Raven bet all of our tokens we could beat them.”

“And I’m guessing you won?” Lexa said, looking at her with green eyes that sparkled with mischievousness and amusement, and Clarke could swear at that moment that she had never been more _seen_ in her entire life. It was electrifying. Scratch that, it was _terrifying_.

“We um…” Clarke looked away, it was impossible to focus with Lexa’s eyes on her. She let out a laugh and let the memory consume her instead. “No, we actually lost. Badly. It was ten kids against two, there was just no way. But the owner saw the whole interaction and she kicked the boys out and gave us free plays for a month. Raven was over the moon, I swear I have never seen anyone gloat so hard in my entire life.”

Lexa let out a bark of a laugh, something Clarke believed would be undoubtedly unattractive on anyone else besides her. “So you two have known each other a long time?”

“Most of our lives,” Clarke replied as her eyes followed the tray of shots that were heading towards their booth. Specifically, the bowl of limes and salt shaker on said tray. _Tequila_. “She was my person for the longest time, even if her love of tequila has nearly killed me on more than one occasion.”

Lexa followed her gaze and shuddered a little before turning back to Clarke, eyes glowing with cat-like curiosity. “If it’s not too personal a question, how did you two lose touch?”

Clarke had an intricate tale on the tip of her tongue, one devised by the team and that painted Clarke as adventurous yet stable, independent yet loyal. And maybe it was the drinks or the sincerity in Lexa’s voice but she couldn’t bring herself to tell the blatant falsehood to the other woman, it felt wrong somehow.

Instead, she said something as close to the truth as she could allow. “Life happens, I guess? Things... happen that change you and suddenly you're not the same person anymore. And the life you thought you wanted no longer seems right.” She paused and looked over to see Raven pushing a tequila shot into an unwilling Anya’s hand with a grin. Raven let out a laugh and leaned in to whisper something in Anya’s ear. Anya’s face went from shocked to defiant to amused and as Raven pulled away Anya merely held up her shot in cheers. They looked happy and Clarke’s heart ached as she continued at a whisper, “Or it’s something you no longer believe you deserve at all…”

She was still watching Anya and Raven when she realized that Lexa hadn’t responded, and the words she’d uttered suddenly resonated in her mind. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

She turned towards Lexa, expecting confusion or worry or even pity but instead she found something else entirely: understanding. Wordless and irrevocable. She found it in the small furrow of her brow and the slight parting of her lips; how her hand hovered near Clarke’s elbow and her body leaned in slightly as if to shield Clarke from further pain.

It was _overwhelming_.  

“I, um…” Clarke didn’t know what to say. She had never been the type to be at a loss for words or let things slip. She was controlled and conscientious. Precise. Efficient. What was going on with her? So she did the only thing she could think to do at that moment as green eyes appraised her: run. “Tequila. Um... you like tequila? I’m gonna grab us a couple shots, I...I’ll be right back.”

And before Lexa could utter a word, she made her way quickly across the bar to Raven, who was telling Anya something with a smirk.

“... and then I said to him ‘You can tell whoever you want but then I’ll have to explain to the team how you, _Mark Zuckerberg,_ got upstaged at your own game.’” Raven finished and Anya laughed. Maybe it was the tequila (or a particular someone) but the imposing woman wasn’t nearly as scary as she was before.

“Are you telling her about the time you modified Facebook’s interface without Zuckerberg knowing or when you beat him at beer pong?” Clarke butted in with a smirk.

Anya looked accurately impressed before turning to Raven with a raised brow.

“Beer pong, but that’s a good story too,” Raven replied smugly, taking a step closer into Anya’s personal space. “I’ll have to tell you about it sometime.”

“Maybe later?” Clarke interrupted again. “Anya, do you mind if I borrow Raven for a bit?”

Raven and Clarke made eye contact, an unspoken conversation going on between their eyes, and before Anya knew what was happening the two of them were making their way towards the bathroom. Clarke glanced over her shoulder one last time to see Lexa joining Anya’s side and they watched with curiosity as Raven and Clarke made their escape. She flashed a cavalier smirk before they slipped into the dimly lit washroom.  

“Dude, what the fuck?” Raven exclaimed as soon as the door was closed. She made her way over to the vanity to touch up her makeup, unaware of Clarke’s panicked expression. “I was getting my _flirt_ on. Anya was finally starting to open up, do you know how handy that will be? Having Lexa’s best friend wrapped around my finger? And I can’t reuse that Zuckerberg story, it’s a one-use kinda deal, you know?”

“Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” Clarke blurted, making eye contact with Raven in the mirror. “Do you think that it’s okay for us to put our personal gain over other people’s lives?”

Raven turned, a suspicion look in her eye. “Clarke, what are you talking about? What do you think we’ve been doing all this time? Making people’s lives _better_ ? Teaching them a lesson so that they are more grateful and their lives are more _enriched_?”

“No, of course not…” Clarke sighed. “But our targets are usually lazy or entitled or ignorant, or an extremely unhealthy combination of three. These people are nothing like that. They’re hardworking and generous and kind. They don’t deserve what’s gonna happen to them. Don’t you like Anya, Raven? Are you okay destroying her life?”

“Look, Clarke. I love you but let’s not pretend for a second this is about me or Anya,” Raven said as she crossed her arms. “This is about Lexa. You’ve been fangirling over her since the moment you saw her picture on debriefing day.”

“I have _not._ ”

“You have so,” Raven rebuffed. “ And you’re letting it affect the job. Clarke, I’ve known you for long enough to know when you’re crushing on someone. When you’re overly invested. You have that same drooling, puppy-dog look on your face that you had when you first met Fi—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Clarke deadpanned. “Don’t you dare. We promised we wouldn’t talk about him, _ever_.”

“Fine,” Raven acquiesced. She even had the decency to look slightly guilty, even if they both knew she wouldn’t apologize for the slip. “Regardless, you can’t let whatever _this_ is,” she continued, making a circular gesture with her lip gloss-clad hand, “interfere with what needs to be done.”

Clarke looked down, prepared to battle it out with Raven but when she looked up the fire in Raven’s eyes had dwindled and she was at a loss for words.

“I know… I know everyone else is happy doing this,” Raven started at almost at a whisper, “but when I heard that this could be our last job, I was overjoyed. I’m smart, Clarke. Like stupidly, obnoxiously smart. ‘Limitless potential’ smart, or so Elon Musk said. And I want to use that. I could do anything, be anything. And I feel like every year I’m _not_ utilizing my full potential, I’m wasting it. I’m… I’m just _wasting_ away.”

Clarke didn’t know what to say. What _could_ she say? The guilt was eating away at her, pulling her under. She directed her gaze down, unable to even look at Raven in that moment.

Raven saw Clarke’s expression, able to read it wordlessly just like when they were young. “Don’t feel guilty, Clarke. I know you want to shoulder everybody’s burdens so they don’t have to but it was _our_ decision. _Our_ responsibility. And I wouldn’t change a thing. You’re my person, you always have been. You and your family are the reason I even have a _chance_ at the future I want, and likely the reason I’m not coked out somewhere in an alley by now.”

Raven took Clarke’s hands, forcing her gaze back up. “Look. One last job, okay? Just look at her as a target, that’s what I’m doing with Anya. ‘Conceal, don’t feel. Don’t let them know,’ and all that shit.”

Clarke cracked a grin for the first time since they entered that bathroom. “Did you just quote _Frozen_?”

“Fuck yeah, I did,” Raven said, applying some gloss to Clarke’s lips before wrapping her arm around Clarke’s shoulder and leading her towards the door. “Now come on Elsa, you can let shit go after this job is done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. This huge project at work has been taking over my life and it's been causing a bit of a creativity drought. And I know y'all wanna see more one-on-one Clarke and Lexa but we're building up to it, I promise. 
> 
> Thank you guys for reading. Leave a comment, Q&A me, hmu ;) jk, I'm taken. But seriously, I love hearing from you guys. It gives me the encouragement I crave to continue working on this in the midst of my crazy, crazy life. 
> 
> (Also, King Princess's new EP is gold, listen to it to feel all the feels.)


	6. Green Light

Clarke and Raven exited the bathroom to see the majority of the group now standing near the darts board, the game of pool momentarily forgotten in lieu of a new competition occurring between Lexa and a short brunette. They sidled up just as the unknown figure, partially hidden behind Gustus’ large frame, threw her three darts consecutively towards the board, two darts landing just outside of the bullseye and the third landing directly in the center. 

There were some hollers of support as the brunette walked up to pluck her darts off the board and stepped to the side, her back still towards the newcomers.

Raven settled herself next to Anya, who was standing the farthest back, and asked with a nudge, “They know that’s not how you play darts, right?”

Anya merely smirked, “And you know you don’t always have to be right, right?”

Raven faced Anya full on with a smirk of her own. “You wouldn’t like me if I wasn’t.”

“And who says I like you?” Anya quickly countered.

Instead of rising further to the challenge, Raven merely shrugged. “Just a feeling…” was all she said in response. 

Anya looked like she wanted to say more but refrained as Clarke took a spot on the other side of Raven. “What  _ exactly _ are they doing?”

Lexa stepped up next and, like a warrior going into battle, she looked threatening if not dangerous as she wielded her darts like blades. 

“They’re doing a darts version of knife throwing, whoever hits closest to the center the most will win,” Anya grumbled, crossing her arms. 

“How medieval,” Raven commented just as Gustus clapped his hands and cheered, “Let’s go, Commander.”

_ Commander _ . For some reason, the nickname sent a shudder through Clarke’s very core. 

Lexa threw her three darts so fast there was barely a pause between their gentle thuds into the board. One had landed on the outer ring of the bullseye and the other two occupied the center bullseye. It was impressive, to say the least.

The group cheered and Lexa’s competitor walked up to her with a grin to shake her hand.  _ Octavia. _

“Congrats, boss. Next drink’s on me,” Octavia said before making her way over to Clarke’s small group. She greeted Raven and Anya first before turning to Clarke.

“Oh, Octavia, this is an old friend. Clarke, Octavia. Octavia, Clarke,” Raven introduced as the two shook hands, playing at being strangers.

“Call me ‘O,’ it’s easier. It’s nice to meet you, Clarke,” Octavia said, “I’m heading to the bar, do you need a drink?”

Clarke saw it in Octavia’s eyes, what she was really saying.  _ Come to the bar with me. We need to talk.  _

Clarke smiled back, “That’s okay, I’ll just come with you.”

Clarke saw Lexa looking their way before following Octavia to the bar, curiosity and lingering worry swimming in her green eyes. Clarke gave her a small smile of reassurance before following her friend to the bar, sitting down next to her as they waited for Bellamy to come over.

“What are you doing, O?” Clarke whispered as soon as she sat. “It wasn’t in the plan for you to be here.”

“I was at the office finishing up some work--being Lexa’s assistant is like 3 people’s jobs put together-- when Bellamy called me. He said you looked upset then dragged Raven into the bathroom so I hurried over to provide a distraction.” Octavia waved her brother down when he finally turned in their direction. “Good thing I did too, Lexa and Anya were looking at the bathroom door like it was going to explode.”

Octavia was working as Lexa’s assistant so that they had full access to her calendar and day-to-day movements. It was essential to their plan, even if Octavia hated being chained behind a desk more than she hated the color pink.

“Hey guys,” Bellamy greeted, his charming bartender smile in place for any onlookers. “Clarke, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Clarke waved off their concern. She didn’t have the time nor desire to try and explain her moral predicament to the Blake siblings. They were notoriously stubborn and proudly obstinate, unwilling to bend almost to a fault. “Can I get a bourbon, Bell?”

Bellamy looked like he wanted to ask more, worry dripping from his eyes, but he held his tongue. Thankfully for Clarke, sometimes he knew when to back off. 

“Another bourbon for Lexa and a whiskey sour for me,” Octavia requested, eyes bouncing back and forth between Clarke and Bellamy. She looked even more anxious to ask questions, always the less patient of the two, but a side-look from Bellamy quieted her.  

Not for long, though. The moment he stepped away, Octavia turned towards her a little more. 

“You don’t have to say anything, just listen,” she started when Clarke began to open her mouth. “I know you’ve been having a rough go of it and I know you’re gonna power through for everyone else’s sake. And I know you, Ray, and Bell are like the dynamic trio or whatever but I also know more than y’all let on,” Octavia let out a huff, “I’m just saying, if you need to talk to someone besides them, you can talk to me. I can keep my mouth shut and listen when I need to.” 

Clarke was grateful, immeasurably so, but she was talked out. She just needed to finish this job and start over. Escape, if that were even possible. “Thanks, O. I appreciate it, really.”

Bellamy returned with the drinks and wished them luck. When they made it back to the group, Octavia separated to talk to Lincoln, Gustus, and Indra while Clarke took Lexa’s drink and headed in her direction.

Lexa was leaning against the pool table again, watching her employees as if she were more than just their boss, but their leader; she looked at them like they were her people, to protect and guide in all senses of the words. 

Clarke took her spot next to Lexa and held out the drink in a gesture--of kindness or apology for her strange behavior, she didn’t know which. 

“I believe this is for you,  _ Commander,” _ Clarke said with a smirk.

She saw the slight twinge of red in Lexa’s cheeks and how her jaw tightened just a bit at the nickname. “ _ Not _ a word,” Lexa ordered sternly as she took the offered drink.

“Come on, Lexa, you’re not gonna tell me where it came from?” Clarke pushed, her smirk turning into a full-blown grin. “It’s pretty cute if you ask me.”

Lexa looked down at Clarke’s puppy dog eyes and endearing smile and cracked the smallest of grins. “My um.. my dad was in the army when I was young. One time when he was leaving, I asked why he couldn’t stay and he said that his commander needed him to go. So I told him I was a commander too and demanded he not go anywhere. Gustus served with him and I guess it kinda stuck.” 

Clarke could see the sadness in Lexa’s eyes as she finished her story and she knew why it was there: Lexa’s father died in action when she was only ten. Clarke could ask how long he served and where, or when she had met Gustus. She could even bring up an anecdote about her own father. But bonding over dead dads was wrong, even by her abysmally low moral standards. 

Right then, Clarke wanted nothing more than to hug Lexa, to hold her and tell her that he was a brave man and he had a brave daughter and that everything would be okay because she was strong and had survived. But she couldn’t do any of that. No, definitely not.

“Well I like it,” Clarke said lamely, in an attempt to brighten the mood. “It fits somehow.”

Lexa nodded but didn’t respond and the two stood there for a moment, breathing in the silence. 

“Are you okay?” Lexa blurted and Clarke could tell from the way Lexa paused that she hadn’t meant to ask. “I mean earlier. You kind of bolted…”

“I um.. Yeah, I’m okay,” Clarke said with the best smile she could muster as she formulated a response. “It’s just been a while since I was surrounded by people like this. And seeing Raven, I mean she was such a large part of my past, it kind of reminded me of all that I missed out on when I left.”

Lexa looked like she wanted to ask more, like she knew there was more to ask about, but she refrained. “I get it. Seeing what could have been, so close but… it’s harder than not knowing what you’re missing in the first place,” Lexa consoled with empathy more than sympathy, as if she knew how that felt.

It was Clarke’s turn to have questions be on the tip of her tongue. But before she could ask, Lexa interrupted with a cough. “Now, how about we finish that game? It’s oddly satisfying watching Raven doing something she’s bad at.”

Clarke let out a small laugh. “Sure, let’s do it.”

Things went back to normal after that. 

Clarke was just the right amount of flirty and Lexa the right amount of receptive to that flirtiness. They joked and told stories about their college years and made fun of Raven’s complete inability to play pool. The game finished quickly, Anya and Raven simply no match for the two of them, and by the end of it, it was one in the morning and most everyone had gone besides the four of them along with Octavia and Lincoln, who were talking in low tones at the booth.

They settled down at the bar as Raven and Anya tried their luck at darts. Clarke was about to ask if Lexa wanted to grab a bite to eat when an alert from Lexa’s phone had her looking down and saying, “I need to head out, I have an early morning meeting that I completely forgot about.”

Clarke wanted her to stay but Clarke wasn’t going to start their relationship with being needy or distracting from Lexa’s work, that is the last thing the other woman would want. 

“Yeah, I’ll probably head out too,” Clarke said, finishing off her drink, “I have to meet with a contractor in the morning about the layout of the gallery for the show.”

“I’m sure it will look amazing with you at the helm,” Lexa said, conviction shining through her green eyes. 

Clarke didn’t know that she could feel this way about someone she had just met. It was hard to find a word for it; something more endearing than starstruck, but more explosive than awed. Because Lexa made her feel focused on, made her feel  _ seen _ . It only took a few words and those sincere, green eyes and Clarke knew she was falling.

“...um, Clarke?” Lexa asked with concerned eyes, that same little crinkle appearing between her brow.

“Sorry, yes?”

“I was asking which direction you were going?”

“Oh, uptown. I’m in East Harlem,” Clarke said, knowing that Lexa lived in the Upper East Side and would likely ask if she wanted to share a taxi. 

“Well, I’m up in the Upper East Side. Want to share a cab?” Lexa asked.  _ Bingo _ . 

They waved goodbye to the others and Clarke got one last wink from Raven before they were out in the cold night air. The blizzard had stopped--now a light dusting rather than an onslaught-- and the snow had settled onto the streets like a blanket, tucking the usually bustling streets in for the night. It was magical. 

“I don’t want you to go out of your way, Lexa. Besides, I was just gonna take the subway anyways,” Clarke replied with a shrug, beginning to back away. She was self-sufficient, strong, independent. And she  _ really was _ , but it was important that Lexa know that too. 

“It’s freezing, Clarke. And it’s not safe to ride the subway alone at this time,” Lexa insisted.

Clarke stopped and gave Lexa a small smirk as she felt a snowflake melt on her booze-warmed cheek. “And they say chivalry is dead.”

Lexa took a step forward into Clarke’s personal bubble of space, to wipe the droplet of water off with her thumb. “Well  _ they _ clearly haven’t met me,” she said with a smirk. 

And without looking away from Clarke, her left hand still near Clarke’s face, she raised her right and a cab stopped next to them on the street. 

_ Oh sweet, baby Jesus and all that is holy.  _ Clarke couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

Lexa maintained eye contact, steely green sly yet adamant, as she opened the cab’s door. “Now get in, Clarke, before you catch your death of cold.”

Clarke didn’t know what to do, what to say. Any willpower to even pretend to fight Lexa on taking the cab went out the window, so she crossed her arms and slid into the cab with a huff. She heard Lexa laugh lightly just as the door closed and she circled the cab and entered the other side. 

“Where to?” Lexa asked, clearly still proud of herself for getting the blonde into the cab in the first place. 

“East 96th and 2nd,” Clarke grumbled just loud enough for the driver to hear and Lexa let out another small laugh.

Clarke stared out the window at the passing lights and the snow-covered ground and how the city was unusually quiet. And suddenly, she was overcome by a memory that she couldn’t shake and there was only one place in the entire world she wanted to be. And she wanted Lexa to be there with her.

“Do you mind if we make a pitstop?” Clarke asked. Lexa’s head tilted slightly to the side, trying to discern what Clarke was thinking and why. Before she could ask, though, Clarke continued, “It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

That seemed to perplex the brunette even more but she nevertheless nodded in acquiescence. Clarke leaned forward to whisper the new destination into the driver’s ear and they took the next street heading east. 

They finally stopped at a bridge--The Queensboro Bridge, to be exact--and if Lexa had been confused before, she was positively gob stopped now. Without thinking-- because sometimes it was important to act without thought, Clarke justified-- she grabbed Lexa’s hand and dragged her out of the cab, handing the driver a couple of twenties to stay there until they got back. 

Lexa didn’t say a word as they began crossing the bridge, even though it was impossibly cold with the wind coming off of the river and Clarke had offered no explanation as to why they were on the bridge in the first place. When they were close to the center, Clarke turned around abruptly, startling Lexa, and she leaned in until her mouth was next to Lexa’s ear before whispering, “Close your eyes.”

When she pulled back, Lexa’s eyes were closed and Clarke couldn’t help but think of how beautiful and trusting the brunette was in that moment. Clarke turned her around to face the city with a sigh and wrapped her arms around the Lexa’s waist.

“ _ The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world,"  _ Clarke whispered in Lexa’s ear and she saw Lexa open her eyes.

“Fitzgerald,  _ The Great Gatsby,” _ Lexa exhaled. “It’s one of my favorites.”

Clarke turned her face slightly and she could swear that she saw Lexa shiver just a bit when Clarke’s breath hit her neck. Although, it could also be the cold.  _ That _ was also entirely possible. 

“Why did you take me here, Clarke?” Lexa asked, eyes never leaving the skyline. “You can’t tell me we braved subzero temperatures for a view. Albeit, a beautiful one.”

Clarke exhaled once and released Lexa to stand next to her against the railing. “This is where my parents met. And where my dad would take me when I couldn’t sleep to tell me their story. And…” 

Clarke paused, unsure whether she wanted to--or should even-- talk about it at all. She was playing a part after all; she could lie and it would be easier. But she didn’t want it to be, she realized. Lexa was damaged and raw and real and so was she. She wanted to be all of those things with her, even if it hurt them both more in the end. “And it’s where my dad died.”

Lexa jolted as if lightning had struck her and she turned to look at Clarke with empathy burning in her eyes.

“ _ The Great Gatsby _ was the first book he gave my mom. And when he started working on Long Island and wouldn’t make it home until late, my mom set up a green light of her own as a beacon.” Clarke pointed up so that Lexa’s gaze would as well before continuing, “If you look really hard, there is a large green gem hanging up there that reflects at sunset. You wouldn’t see it unless you knew when and where to look, but she knew it guided him home.”

Clarke looked back down into Lexa’s eyes, a green light of their own. “It’s terribly romantic, isn’t it?” 

Lexa smiled at her and took her hand. “It is.”

And Clarke didn’t let go of her hand the entire way home.

* * *

 

They pulled up to Clarke’s building, the snow more insistent to fall than before, and hand in hand Lexa walked Clarke up to the steps of her little brownstone, the quiet of the city embracing them like an old friend.

Clarke was on the first step when she turned around to face Lexa. The streetlamp made her eyes glow and the snow stuck in her hair looked more like starlight than anything else. 

“Well, this is where we part ways,” Lexa said beginning to back away and turn, connected hands beginning to part.

“Lexa,” Clarke stated, pulling Lexa back around until their noses were almost touching. “Kiss me.”

And she did. 

If you were to look on in that moment, you would see two girls guarded and broken, but hopeful, standing under a streetlamp as if it were their own personal spotlight and snow falling as it dusted them with something closer to magic than nature. You would see the promise of tomorrow and the forgiveness of yesterday.

But if you looked closer, you would also see betrayal and lies and desperation. 

And if you focused not on the spotlight, but the dark, you would see a stranger just waiting for the disaster to unfold. 


	7. I've got you (under my skin)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is never gonna happen again, posting this frequently. But I used my insomnia for good instead of evil so here ya go!
> 
> Also y'all are gonna hate me...

“So let me get this straight,” Raven started, her mostly finished wine sloshing around as she waved her hands in gesture, “First you awkwardly stare at her, make her uncomfortable at the booth, kick her ass at pool, freak out and drag me into the bathroom with you without any real explanation, bring up _her_ dead dad, drag her halfway across a bridge post-blizzard, then bring up _your_ dead dad? Did I miss anything?”

Clarke looked down from her position on the ladder, a new light bulb in her hand that she was becoming more inclined to chuck at Raven than to install. It was Monday evening and Lexa had yet to utilize the phone number Clarke had so charmingly written down for her on a bar napkin on Friday. And so she asked Raven, Octavia, and Harper over to her gallery for a  problem-solving session.

Which, she was starting to realize, was a huge mistake.

Because looking back, she had had more slip-ups that night than she’d had in the past few years of doing this all together. And Raven was picking them apart like some kind of amateur Sherlock Holmes.

“Nope that’s about it, Raven _._ Will you just let it go?” Clarke pleaded, making stern eye contact with Raven before turning to put the lightbulb in.

“And you _still_ got her to kiss you?”

Clarke let out an aggravated sigh as Harper grumbled a “ _Jesus Christ,_  Raven,” and Octavia socked her in the shoulder.

“ _Owww.”_ Raven groaned, looking pointedly at Octavia, “Look I’m just saying, if I had pulled that crap with someone I wouldn’t have even gotten a number, much less a kiss at the end of the night.”

Clarke finished screwing the bulb into place before climbing down and accepting her offered drink from Harper. “Well that’s the problem, isn’t it? We had a weird night that ended _really_ well and then she doesn’t text me? And _don’t_ ,” Clarke interrupted as Raven began to open her mouth, “say it was the dead dad talk. We bonded over that.”

Clarke felt bad for bringing it up, using her dad as a ploy to get closer to Lexa. But in the moment, it hadn’t felt like a ploy or a ruse or anything like that. It had felt _real_ , like sharing it with Lexa was sharing a piece of herself, a piece she wanted to give freely and wholeheartedly.

And now the woman wasn’t texting her back.

Clarke would never admit it to the others, but on the inside, she was stewing. Her stomach was in knots; the kind she couldn’t remember having since waiting for her crush to ask her to the middle school dance.

“Well the gallery looks amazing at least,” Harper offered as consolation.

“Thanks. I’m still a little peeved at my contractor, though. I wanted to put the murals on these sort of slowly rotating platforms and he said that he couldn’t pull it off by next weekend.”

The show was the other thing eating away at her. She couldn’t even pretend to hide her excitement or nerves over the opening, especially from herself. And the contractor had done an amazing job with his proposed layouts and sketches: the sculptures would all have different platforms at varying heights and the performance artist had a stage on one side. The only things missing from Clarke’s vision were the mural platforms. The graffiti artist usually put his art up on the sides of buildings or overpasses or even billboards and people always experienced them in passing; it forced one’s eye to continue examining it. That was how Clarke wanted her guests to experience the art: with purpose and conviction. If they wanted to truly see it, they would have to chase it.

“Well I could probably solve that issue for you,” Raven said nonchalantly as she got up to refill her glass.

“You could?”

Raven stopped mid-pour and gave Clarke her _“You seriously doubt me?”_ look. It was the same look she gave Clarke when the blonde told her that there was no way she could go to the last day of Governor's Ball and still present her senior project the next morning. “I’m honestly offended you didn’t ask me to do the entire showroom,” Raven said, looking around at the beginnings of construction and shrugging, “I mean it’s looking okay, but I definitely could have done better.”

Clarke ignored Raven’s bravado as she had since they were children: with a roll of the eyes. “But you could build me platforms that rotate?”

“I could do you one better. How about rotating them in a suspended field?” At Clarke’s confused look, she continued, “Think of them as giant, slow-moving ceiling fans with steel cords holding up the works? The beams you have should provide enough stability, just send me the weights and dimensions of the pieces and I should be able to put something together for you,” Raven shrugged again.

“Raven Reyes, will you marry me?” Clarke said with her biggest _I love you_ grin.

“Nuh-uh, save that shit for Lexa.”

“Speaking of,” Octavia said, redirecting the conversation, “What are you going to do about her?”

“You could just wait until the gallery opening?” Harper suggested.

“No, I can’t wait that long,” Clarke said with a shake of her head. “I figure the reason she hasn’t texted me is that I’m either a terrible kisser or she’s afraid of the commitment, and in either case, I don’t want her brooding on that for a week. It gives her too many opportunities to pull away.”

“Or you scared her off with your crazy,” Raven mumbled.

“Fuck off, Raven,” Octavia said with a shove, “I’m going with ‘b’ because I know firsthand you are _not_ a terrible kisser.”

“I second that,” Raven said, throwing her hand in the air.

Harper gave them all a weird look and Octavia laughed, “You should have known Clarke in high school, we didn’t call her Party Griffin for nothing.”

“Ah, those were the times,” Raven reminisced with a grin of her own.

“Can we focus?” Clarke implored, her cheeks red. She wasn’t particularly proud of the person she was then. Not that she was particularly proud of the person she was now. “If she’s afraid of the commitment, then I just need to show her I can be in her life without it disrupting anything. Part of her normal routine, a smooth transition.”

Raven had one of her light up moments and turned to Clarke with a smirk, “Oh, I know _exactly_ what you should do.”

* * *

  _Fuck you, Raven._

She continued the mantra over and over again in her head, the hate for her best friend being the only thing keeping her alive in the early morning chill.

Clarke was sitting on a bench. In Central Park. At six in the morning. And it was barely above freezing.

Why? Because Lexa ran every morning before work. And every morning before work, she took the same path through the park. So here she was, sitting on a bench and freezing her ass off, trying to sketch with fingers she could no longer feel.

_Fuck you, Raven. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you._

Clarke blew into her hands, a visible puff escaping through her fingers, before looking down at the empty page. She couldn’t remember the last time she had sketched. Over the past few years, she had been teachers and executive assistants, she had been journalists and bartenders and baristas. She had even been a student again for a professor with a certain fantasy in mind. And in one or two, she got to express herself through art, but she hadn’t been inspired then.

And she was inspired now. She closed her eyes and opened them again, a vision overtaking her as her charcoal moved across the page almost against her will. It was rough and abstract and messy, much like her mind, but parts began to come together and shadows started to appear and everything started to make sense.

“Clarke?”

Clarke looked up and snapped her sketchbook closed subconsciously, so completely immersed in her work that she hadn’t even realized that the sun had risen higher in the sky and the reason she was in that damned park in the first place was now standing right in front of her.

“Lexa?” she returned, shock hopefully evident in her voice, “Oh my goodness, hi. What are you doing here?”

“I run here in the mornings,” Lexa responded as if it were obvious, and Clarke supposed it was if the thermal running jacket and pants the brunette was wearing were any indication. _Smooth, Griffin._ “What are _you_ doing here?”

The suspicion in her voice was clear. Running into another person twice in a week was rare. Doing so in New York City was next to impossible.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Clarke said nonchalantly, “My show is this weekend and I’ve been pretty stressed about it so I came out here to find some fresh air and quiet to sketch a little. Although, both are a little harder to find here than in Tibet.” Clarke shot Lexa a conspiratorial smile.

Lexa returned one of her own, seeming to accept the explanation, and took a step forward, gesturing towards the spot next to her on the bench, “May I?”

“Of course.”

They sat there for a moment in silence, the knowledge that they had kissed and that Lexa hadn’t made the next move sitting in the air like a fog.

“Why didn’t you—?” Clarke started just as Lexa said, “I’m sorry I—,”

They both smiled at each other, laughing at themselves for acting like high schoolers rather than the adults they were.

Clarke gave her a small, encouraging grin, “You first.”

“Okay, well… I’m sorry I didn’t text or call,” Lexa started, sincerity in her eyes, “I threw my clothes in the wash as soon I got home because they were soaked and completely forgot that the napkin was in my pocket.”

“You could have gotten it from Raven,” Clarke insisted. She hadn’t realized until then that she had been genuinely hurt that Lexa hadn’t contacted her, annoyed to the point of bitter.

“I was going to, but she’s my employee and I’m her boss and I didn’t want to blur any lines between professional and personal.”

Clarke actually scoffed a little, “You two took tequila shots together on Friday, I think you’re a little past blurred lines.”

_Way to be chill, Griffin. Say goodbye to “cool and understanding” Clarke, it was nice knowing you. Now say hello to "crazy and obsessive" Clarke, she's a ball._

She expected Lexa to stand up and walk away. She would.

Instead, Lexa turned to her and said, “You’re right.”

Clarke tried to mask her surprise, “Look, Lexa, if you’re not ready for—”

“That’s just it,” Lexa interrupted, placing a hand on Clarke’s, “I am ready. Or, at least, I want to be. I haven’t been able to… to trust anyone in a long time. And it wasn’t until I was blindly following you onto that bridge and closing my eyes that I realized: I trust _you_. That I’ve never met anyone like you before. And that I want to try. You just might need to be a little patient with me at first.”

Clarke felt a little piece of her heart break off. _Trust_. She wanted to take Lexa by the shoulders and tell her that trust was the last thing she should put in her. That if she knew what was good for her, she would run the other way.

“Clarke? I’m sorry, was that too much? I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no. You didn’t say anything wrong,” Clarke said, smiling weakly, as she turned her hand over and interlocked their fingers together. “I’ve been on my own for a while and I know it’s hard letting people in. Maybe we can relearn how to do it together?”

Lexa sighed is relief and squeezed Clarke’s hand before releasing it, “I’d like that.”

Clarke smiled at Lexa as the guilt ate away at her. “Well, how would you like to get a cup of coffee? I know this great place a few blocks from here.”

“I’d like that too,” Lexa said as she stood, holding out her hand for Clarke to once again take.

Clarke gathered up her things and took it, a new mantra now on repeat in her mind.

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry._

* * *

 

The café they were in was converted from a church, all senescent, white arches and reminiscent of another time, with a small courtyard occupied by blue, metal tables and space heaters. Even the mood was redolent of the past, with the baristas wearing button-ups and paperboy hats and “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” by Frank Sinatra playing lightly over the speakers. They settled into one of the outdoor tables and a moment later, a wiry young man came up with a small notebook in hand.

“Good morning ladies, what can I get you?”

Clarke looked up and there stood Jasper, energetic and eager, with his nametag on upside down and a lopsided grin plastered on his face. Jasper was nine times out of ten a barista in their cons. Or a server. He was the reason Clarke knew what Cage’s order was during their last job and the reason that their drinks didn’t have names on them except for a large “C” written on the side.

“Hi,” Clarke started, pretending to read his upside down name tag, “... Jasper. Can I get a triple shot cappuccino and an everything bagel?”

“Sure thing,” he said with a smile, writing it down. Though he didn’t really need to, that had been her go-to since college. “And for you, miss?”

“Just a black coffee, please,” Lexa requested.

“No food? We just put avocado toast on the menu.”

Lexa smiled at his enthusiasm, “Sure, why not?”

Jasper bounded away and Clarke couldn’t help but glare at him.

“Not much of a morning person, I see?” Lexa teased.

“There is a reason I decided to be an artist,” Clarke stated firmly, “and one of those reasons is the ability to create my own schedule. Besides, no one should be that cheerful before 8 a.m. Morning person or not.”

“And did you always want to be an artist?”

“Well, if my mother had it her way, I would be finishing my residency by now,” Clarke said with a shrug. “Follow in her footsteps or whatever. A ‘waste of talent _and_ a photographic memory’ I think is what she said the last time she brought it up.”

“Ah, so that’s how you’re able to quote random writers at the drop of a hat?” Lexa teased.

“It has its perks, like impressing pretty women to start,” Clarke replied with a wink.

Lexa laughed a little, “Very charming.”

The coffee landed in front of them before Jasper was off once again.

“So did you not like the classes or…?” Lexa asked.

“No, it wasn’t that. I liked the classes fine and I wanted to help people. But at some point, you have to do what makes you happy. To prioritize yourself, you know?” Clarke purposefully omitted the other reason she didn’t continue on that path, but it wasn’t exactly something she could talk to Lexa about. “Do you like what you do? You know, I still don’t know what exactly it is you do,” she admitted with a laugh.

“Well, I run a company that develops and produces medical technology. CAT scan machines and the like,” Lexa started before laughing at Clarke’s expression,” Do I like it? I don’t know about that. But it makes me happy knowing how many people it benefits. And a large portion of the company’s profits and resources go to developing countries and refugee camps which is probably my true passion, if anything.”

_Oh, God. She’s perfect._

“Well that’s very admirable, Miss Woods,” Clarke said with a grin, “Cheers to that.”

They clinked mugs just as the food arrived and soon they were talking about everything from the opulent avocado toast in front of Lexa to Clarke’s gallery opening. Lexa listened as Clarke talked animatedly about her gallery and Clarke laughed as Lexa tried to decipher if the plate in front of her was food or art, to which Clarke justified could be both.

When they had finished, the morning rush had cleared out and their coffee had been refilled more than once.

“Oh, God,” Lexa startled, looking down at her watch. “I have a meeting I need to get to in 45 minutes.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Clarke said scrabbling to wave Jasper over.

“Clarke, it’s okay,” Lexa assured, plucking Clarke’s waving hand gracefully from the air. “What’s the point in being the boss if I’m not late once in a while?”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Lexa said with a smile.

Clarke returned it but when she looked down to Lexa’s bouncing knee, that smile turned into a full-on, shit-eating grin. “You’ve never been late to a meeting before, have you?”

Lexa looked bashful before redirecting her eyes across the street. “No.”

Clarke let out a loud laugh before gathering her bag with her other hand and pulling Lexa up. “Come on, we can pay at the counter.”

After they paid, they made their way to the street so that Lexa could grab a cab downtown.

“So, can you come to the gallery opening?” Clarke asked, trying to quell her enthusiasm just a little.

“On Saturday, right? Of course, I’ll be there,” Lexa said matter-of-factly as she tried to hail a cab.

“No, Lexa. I don’t think you’re understanding me,” Clarke replied with a shake of her head, “I’m asking if you’ll go _with_ me, as my date.”

“Oh, _oh,_ ” Lexa looked back to Clarke with her hand still in the air, realization dawning in her eyes. She grinned as if it were an honor, “ Of course, Clarke. I would love to.”

Clarke smiled and leaned in just as a taxi pulled up, kissing Lexa lightly on the lips. “I’ll see you there?”

Lexa grinned back and gave her another quick peck. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Clarke watched with a smile as Lexa’s cab pulled away and turned at the next block. Jasper came striding out to her spot on the street and placed an elbow on her shoulder.

“So did we get her, Griffin?” Jasper asked.

Clarke felt her smile falter, “Yeah, yeah we got her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So do you hate me? Don't lose hope if you do, I'm a happy endings for all kinda gal ;)
> 
> Also, if you want to get a better idea of the cafe vibe, I drew direct inspiration from Bluestone Lane in NYC. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and I'll see y'all next time!


	8. Take Me Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorty but a goodie :) And v important to the plot, enjoy!

Clarke was standing in front of the mirror in her East Harlem apartment, assessing what had to have been the tenth outfit she had put on. Her nerves were eating away at her like termites, destroying her foundations and eroding her walls. She had been at the gallery all day trying to finish setting up, making sure the caterer knew where to go and that the artists knew when to arrive and constantly pestering Raven about her rigs, which she reassured endlessly were perfectly safe.

It wasn’t until Bellamy swung by to set up the bar-- a deal they had supposedly made the first night she met Lexa--that she was effectively kicked out; pushed out the door with a “take a Xanax or something, you’re stressing me out,” from Raven and a pat on the back from Bell. 

So she went home to let her nerves fester. And it wasn’t until she had received a bouquet of sunflowers--her favorite--from Lexa that her stomach stopped flipping and started fluttering. 

She glanced at them now and let herself calm down before turning back towards the mirror; the  black midi dress she was wearing really was one of her favorites. She made her way to the bathroom mirror, pulling her hair back into a romantic bun and finished her look with large, gold hoops. She applied her makeup quickly, a relatively natural look besides the bronze eye makeup that accented her blue orbs.

She had just pulled out a lip gloss when a knock on the door pulled her back to the present.

“Coming!” she hollered across the space. Her apartment wasn’t much--well, it was shit really--but it’s one redeeming quality was the bedroom that she had turned into an art studio. It had large windows and enough space for her to store her many canvases: a painter’s dream. 

She opened the door to find Lexa, wearing a black tuxedo jacket that seemed to be made out of velvet, matching skinny pants, black heels and not much else. A single, thin gold chain wrapped around her neck and travelled between her cleavage, encouraging one’s eye lower. Her hair swooped over one shoulder gently and it was the first time she had seen Lexa with her hair down; the style seemed to accentuate the brunette’s features differently, making them softer but somehow more defined. Her expression, though, was what enchanted Clarke the most. Lexa looked at her as she imagined she looked at art, like seeing true beauty for the first time.

“Hi,” Clarke said softly.

“Hi,” Lexa returned, her expression returning to normal. 

“Um, I’m almost ready. Grab a seat... ” Clarke said and turned around before freezing, “wherever you can find one.”

Clarke realized then that her place was a mess: paint brushes were next to the kitchen sink, pizza boxes sat on the counter, and charcoal and papers littered the coffee table. She  _ really _ should have cleaned but her mind had been so preoccupied with the gallery opening that the thought hadn’t even occurred to her.

“Take your time,” Lexa said, following her in and sitting on the couch, “I’m early.”

“Perks of living so close I guess,” Clarke replied cheekily as she made her way into the bathroom. “Sorry the place is such a mess, I’m not normally this disorganized but with the show and everything…”

She could almost hear Lexa’s smile in her voice, “A little mess isn’t such a bad thing.”

Clarke peeked her head around the doorframe to see Lexa moving things around on the coffee table. Tidying, from the looks of it, and she let out a small laugh, “I would bet you money that if we were to go to your place right now it would be spotless.”

Lexa’s large eyes reminded Clarke distinctly of a deer caught in headlights and she wondered if the person who came up with that particular idiom was referring to Lexa when they did. 

“Well, first round’s on me tonight,” Lexa replied as a smile grew on her face.

“It’s an open bar, silly,” Clarke teased, returning to look into the mirror as she brought her gloss back to her lips.

She heard Lexa hesitate, “Next time, then.”

Clarke’s smile came unbidden at that. “Next time.”

When she re-entered the main space, Lexa was no longer sitting on the couch. In fact, she was nowhere to be found.

“Lexa?” Clarke called quietly, a not unfamiliar panic settling into her bones and her tone. The panic that came from doing what she did, from wondering what she could have possibly left laying about to betray her true intentions. 

“I’m in here,” Lexa called from the bedroom, sounding distant.

Clarke wandered in slowly and saw Lexa taking in one of her paintings, an unfinished piece depicting two women dancing, their faces close but not quite touching. It was a piece she had started the previous weekend after meeting Lexa, it’s soft colors a stark contrast to her previous work. And it didn’t take a professional to identify the change.

Lexa’s expression, at least from Clarke’s view of her profile, looked soft. Her jaw was loose, her eyes scanning--though more in admiration than analysis. She looked over at Clarke then, that same awe in her eyes.

“It’s not finished,” Clarke supplied weakly.

“Clarke, this is beautiful,” Lexa told her, her voice just above a whisper as her gaze returned to the piece, “I didn’t know you were this talented.”

Clarke made her way over to stand next to Lexa, trying and failing to contain the warmth in her chest, “I’m not. I dabble, is all.”

Lexa turned to her, taking one of her hands, “Do me a favor?”

Clarke looked up at her, Lexa’s heels giving her a few inches, “What’s that?”

“Never downplay yourself. Don’t you dare make yourself smaller for anyone, even yourself,” Lexa all but commanded, her eyes again that dichotomy between soft and hard.

“I…” Clarke didn’t know what to say. An affirmative? A thank you? What  _ was _ there to say? “We should… um, we should go. I told the caterers I would meet them in an hour and traffic is bound to be awful getting over to Brooklyn.”

Clarke left the room before she could see Lexa’s expression, gathering her bag and putting on her heels before making her way to the door. 

“Clarke,” Lexa started and Clarke turned around to see Lexa picking up her phone from the counter, “Your phone.”

“Thanks,” Clarke replied, taking it as her mind still scrambled to find footing; it was running a million miles in just as many directions. Lexa preoccupied her in the best and worst ways, made her lose focus, made her distracted.

And if she had been paying more attention, she might have noticed that she had put her phone down on the coffee table when she got home, not the counter. She might have noticed that something was not quite right.

* * *

 

Clarke was overwhelmed. That might be an understatement but with everything that was going on, overwhelmed was the only word she could come up with at the moment.

The gallery opening was a triumph, people both from in and out of the art world had flooded the space a little after opening. 

And the only thing keeping her sane was Lexa by her side. The brunette made the entire thing manageable if not enjoyable. She spoke to and introduced people, but never distracted them from Clarke. She brought food and drink before Clarke could even think to ask for it, attuned to Clarke’s needs as though it were second nature.

Clarke had just introduced a potential buyer to the sculptor when she made her stealthy escape to stand near the murals. This was the first time she had really seen them in action, rotating slowly as if they were floating, so perfectly in sync that they looked to almost collide before veering off in their separate directions. It was entrancing, she would really have to thank Raven later.

“How does it feel, Miss Gilmore? Everyone is talking, the opening is a success,” someone whispered in her ear, and had she not known the owner’s voice like her own, she would have jumped out of her skin.

Clarke turned to face the voice, blue finding green naturally and without effort. “Thanks to you,” Clarke said with a grateful smile, “I don’t think I would have survived this without you.”

Lexa returned it, “Me? No, I’m just a glorified bartender.”

And as if she had conjured it out of thin air, Lexa produced a bourbon on the rocks.

“Oh, bless you,” Clarke said gratefully, taking the drink, “Everyone seems to be having good time, though, don’t you think?”

Their eyes scoured the room together. Anya and Raven were on the other side of the murals, Raven seemingly bragging about her handiwork. Octavia was standing with Lincoln near the sculptures, both with easy smiles on their faces. A new development, Clarke thought. It wasn’t in the plan for Octavia to get involved with anyone on this job. Lexa’s other coworkers also littered the room, admiring different pieces here and there.

“They do,” Lexa said before turning back towards the murals. “These are amazing, by the way. I might have to buy one. And the suspension idea was a great touch.”

“Yeah, I’d have to thank you for that, actually,” Clarke responded before laughing at Lexa’s confused expression, “I kind of stole your engineer to make it happen.”

“Ah,” Lexa replied, a knowing smile on her face as she glanced over at Raven. “So that’s why my head engineer was MIA for a good part of the week.”

“Guilty,” Clarke said with a smile before leaning in to whisper in Lexa’s ear, “So what’s my punishment,  _ Commander? _ ”

Clarke felt Lexa shudder and she pulled back with a brazen grin on her face.

Lexa noticed, her eyes narrowing but her smile nonetheless present. “I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”

It was then that another patron introduced themself and Clarke was tempted to throw her drink at them and drag Lexa into the back room. But instead, she nodded and smiled as Lexa slipped a calming hand to her lower back. 

That had been their last moment alone until they were bidding the last guest goodbye. Several people had shown interest in buying pieces and Clarke had gotten numbers from multiple dealers that wanted to talk with her about the artists in particular, both how she had discovered them and potentially expanding their collections. 

It was, as Lexa had said, a success. But surreal, like a dream.

But wasn’t that the case? This was the dream, right? The life she would have wanted? 

Clarke had thought about that several times over the years: who she would be, where she would be, who she would be with. If things had been different. 

And this? This came pretty damn close.

She was locking the door and turning off the lights after the last of the caterers when arms came around her and lips pressed against her neck. 

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” Lexa whispered, her husky voice tickling Clarke’s ear, the light smell of bourbon and honey wafting off of her.

Clarke turned and pressed herself against Lexa, and she kissed her. It wasn’t gentle or experimental like their first kiss in the snow or fleeting like their kisses on the street. This kiss was knowing and passionate and strong. It said something else, everything else. Everything else that couldn’t be said. 

_ Thank you. _

_ I’m sorry. _

_ Be mine. _

When they pulled away, both were breathing unevenly, and Clarke looked up into Lexa’s eyes, somehow still bright even in the dark.

“Lexa?” Clarke whispered against her lips, “Take me home.”

Though, Clarke had the distinct impression she was already there.


	9. Sleepovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you guys know when you have an idea and it suddenly shows up on your FB timeline as an ad? Well, that's what happened with my ideas for Lexa's apartment after I googled NYC apartments once. Anyways, I attached pictures at the bottom if y'all want to see what I had in mind for her place!
> 
> This is more of a fluff/filler chapter but we're getting to the good stuff soon, promise! I hope y'all enjoy! See you soon!
> 
> P.S. Y'all know I jammed to Sleepover by Hayley Kiyoko the entire time I wrote this ;)

Clarke awoke to the sun on her face and the smell of coffee in the air.

_Wait._

Clarke’s apartment faced west, the sun never came through in the morning. She opened her eyes to see a very different bedroom than her own. Glass encased her on three sides, one with a view of the rest of a very grandiose apartment a floor below. The bed was larger than her own and the sheets were decadent; the kind of bed she could picture lazing about in all day without a care for the world outside.

Flashes of the night before came flooding back: kissing in her darkened art gallery, in the cab, in an elevator, on a kitchen counter. _Lots_ of kissing. Passionate and enthusiastic. Electric. And then they were making their way up a glass staircase and Clarke could have sworn it was the stairway to heaven.

She remembered biting and caressing and moaning. She remembered the faint taste of bourbon and whispered secrets against bare skin. She remembered the warmth of her lover pressed against her and the sweet smell of honey as she fell into a dreamless sleep.

And she remembered _Lexa_. Her eyes, dark and hungry, as she scanned Clarke’s body. Her lips, swollen and ravenous as she uncovered more and more skin. Her hands, firm yet gentle as she took Clarke to another plane. And her jaw, cutting the air as she threw her head back in release.

And now she was in a strange bed. Alone _._

Clarke hated this step. The _sleepovers_.

Because the sleepovers meant the sex and the cuddles and, worst of all, the mornings after where she had to pretend that they were the fucking best she’d ever had. It was relatively easy to fake pleasure and love in the heat of the moment but it was that much more difficult in the grueling light of day.

But she wasn’t faking it this time. Last night had been _the best_ sex she had ever had. So maybe that meant the next day wouldn’t be so hard.

Clarke made the executive decision to follow the smell of coffee and slipped into her underwear and a Harvard t-shirt she found folded at the end of the bed.

A quick pit stop in the adjoining bathroom, all windows and mirrors and white marble, gave her a chance to freshen up, use some mouthwash and subtly tame her hair. Raven always said that Clarke was blessed because her hair always looked “perfectly fucked” after sex, whatever that means.

She left the bathroom and made her way across a floating bridge to the top of a circular glass staircase and she finally allowed herself to take in the apartment. It was opulent by anyone’s standards with double floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city, a modern chandelier, white marble and gorgeous wood accents. In some aspects, it was exactly as she had expected: perfectly clean--almost to the point of sterile-- and tidy--as if it had been staged. It was beautiful even with its sharp lines and hard angles that spoke little of Lexa’s warmth.

She imagined the place more lived in: throws on the couch for late-night Netflix binges, plants littering the space that Lexa would be responsible for because Clarke had the opposite of a green thumb, artwork on the walls that they found together at galleries and local markets, and furniture that was a little less modern and little more mid-century to accommodate Clarke’s eclectic tastes.

Clarke realized then that she didn’t picture the space more lived in, but that she pictured it more lived in by _her_. She shook her head to chase away the fantasy as she made her way down the staircase.

That was when she saw Lexa, messy curls braided back but still clearly knotted from last night’s escapades, dressed in sweats and a tank top as she whisked something in a bowl. She appeared to be on the phone and oblivious to Clarke’s presence as the blonde made her way closer.

“... yes, I know, I know. Okay? I’m working on it, this is new to me. I can’t just make things happen overnight and--” Lexa paused, seeing Clarke as she turned to get something from the fridge, and a smile crept onto her face. “Yeah, um. I’ve got to go.”

Lexa hung up without a second thought as Clarke sidled up to lean on the island, taking in the aromas with a sigh.

“Morning,” Clarke breathed.

“Morning,” Lexa replied, that same half smile on her face, “My shirt looks good on you.”

Clarke looked down, appraising herself with a small smirk at Lexa’s attempt at nonchalance. “It really does, doesn’t it?” Clarke responded cheekily.

“Mhmm,” Lexa said before holding up a french press in offering, “Coffee?”

“Please.”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Both.”

Lexa brought over a tray with the mostly full french press, that day’s newspaper and all of the necessities as Clarke situated herself on a stool. Just as Lexa was turning back towards the stove, Clarke grabbed her hand and pulled her back, leaning over the counter to place a grateful kiss on Lexa’s lips.

As she pulled away with a smirk, Lexa’s eyes fluttered open in a daze. It was perhaps the most endearing expression she had seen on the enigmatic brunette.

Clarke hummed lightly to herself as she began doctoring up her coffee with more sugar and cream than most deemed appropriate. More than Lexa deemed appropriate as well, apparently.

“You know that can’t be good for you, right?” Lexa questioned and when Clarke looked up, Lexa’s face held such badly concealed disgust that Clarke couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’d say I’ve earned it after last night, wouldn’t you?” she tested, taking a sip and looking up coyly from her seated position.

“Fair enough,” Lexa said with a smirk, making her way back to the stove where a pan was heating up. “Omelets okay?”

“Sure,” Clarke responded and watched as Lexa’s nimble fingers cooked with the smoothness and efficiency of a veteran. “ So who was calling so early?”

“Oh, it was just Titus,” Lexa answered quickly. _Too quickly_.

Clarke knew when someone was lying, her bullshit detector had always been one of her “gifts” as Raven called them, but it got better when lying turned into what she did for a living. And Lexa was definitely lying, about what though, she wasn’t sure.

“Titus?” she asked, though she knew the answer; he was her company’s chief financial officer and one of her principal advisors. He was fiercely protective of the company but stayed out of the spotlight, making it difficult for her team to dig up much else on him.

“He’s the CFO of the company. He’s been pushing for me to make this deal with a conglomerate in Shanghai in order to expand business abroad,” Lexa said with a shrug as she mixed the eggs in the pan.

Clarke could tell that that fact was true but she couldn’t figure out why Lexa would lie in the first place. Not that she could push, she needed to be light and carefree and easy. And a light, carefree, easy person does not interrogate the person cooking a postcoital breakfast for them.

“Sounds like it could be a good opportunity,” Clarke said instead, unfolding the newspaper in front of her, “though it might be a better idea to start international trade with countries in Europe rather than China.”

“Oh?” Lexa asked offhandedly.

“Yeah, with the GOP and talks of a potential trade war in Washington. On top of the fact that the healthcare system in China is even more backward than here, it might look bad from a publicity standpoint to get into bed with companies that routinely profit from the under-insured.”

Clarke took another sip as she mentally berated herself; light, carefree, easy people did _not_ discuss global politics and trade over breakfast. She should have held her tongue. But it was something she was passionate about, especially when her mom went to rural parts of China with nonprofits to help those very people she had just mentioned.

She realized then that Lexa hadn’t responded. In fact, the only noise she could hear was the light sizzling from the pan. She looked up to Lexa, whose expression could only be described as astonished, surprised in the best kind of way. She couldn’t help but smile a little at that, “What?”

Lexa seemed to shake herself out of it and turned back to the stove with a grin as she added the filling, “Nothing, I’m just impressed. I’ll have to run that by Titus, maybe talk to him about hiring some new analysts considering no one has brought up those points before.”

“Impressed? Because of my career choice?” Clarke challenged with a smirk.

She could see the cogs turning in Lexa’s head, deciding whether to tease or placate or just contemplating the notion in general, Clarke couldn’t tell.

“You could say that,” Lexa conceded with a smirk. Clarke could see, though, how Lexa’s brow furrowed slightly and she couldn’t help but wonder why.

“Well do you want my opinion?” Clarke asked as she pushed the curiosity away and watched as Lexa started expertly folding the omelets, efficient as ever. Lexa merely looked at her, curiosity beaming from her green eyes, and nodded in consent. “Analysts, specifically financial analysts, tend to narrow in on specific problems with certain goals and profits in mind.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Lexa challenged with a raised brow, plating the food and placing the plates in front of Clarke and the seat next to her.

“It is if you want mice running on wheels,” Clarke countered as she nodded her head to the silently offered orange juice and Lexa poured two glasses as Clarke continued, “They wouldn’t think to look at the bigger picture; to broaden their horizons and consider the global political landscape or implication when making their recommendations. Or the people that would be involved or affected, for that matter.”

Lexa sat down next to Clarke, her face thoughtful, her mind digesting the information being given. “So who would you hire?”

Clarke mulled that as she began to cut into her half of the omelet, “I’d hire someone who specializes in political science with a technical background. Someone with the knowledge and expertise to do the job you need, but with the perspective and training to look past the numbers.”

Lexa let the words wash over her and her face again took the look of pleasant surprise and slight confusion, “I’ll definitely take that into account, thank you, Clarke.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Clarke replied with a shrug as she took a bite, “Oh my God.”

“What? Is it okay?” Lexa asked, concern resonating in her voice.

Not that Clarke heard it. This was the best damn omelet she’d ever had it. She turned to Lexa, her face completely serious. “I have something to tell you,” she said with such grave conviction that Lexa looked almost afraid of what she could say.

“What is it?” Lexa asked earnestly, “You can tell me anything.”

Clarke acted contemplative before looking in Lexa’s eyes, and taking a breath she said, “I can’t cook worth a damn and this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I’m never cooking again,” she finished definitively, turning back to the food.

She caught Lexa’s expression, though, a hilarious mixture of confused, frustrated and bemused, as she gently took Clarke’s chin in her hand and turned the blonde’s head back to her.

“Yes?” Clarke asked innocently, only a little turned on by Lexa’s darkened expression.

“Does the chef at least get a kiss?” Lexa challenged with a growing smirk.

“Only if she promises to make waffles next time,” Clarke said firmly as she fought the smile creeping onto her face.

Lexa looked to seriously contemplate the deal, “I think she can make that happen.”

Clarke’s smile turned to a full-blown grin as her glance went from full lips to green eyes sparkling like the top of a lake on a sunny day. And all Clarke wanted to do was dive in.

So she did.

* * *

 Over the following week, Clarke slept at Lexa’s place four more times.

The first was that Tuesday. They had met Raven and Anya for drinks around the corner from her apartment, one of the few dive bars that had persevered against the rise of wealth in the Upper East Side. It was casual and fun and easy how they interacted, with each other and the people around them. They ended up at Lexa’s place for a nightcap and sex. Casual, fun and easy.

In the morning, Lexa had left early with a note on the counter for Clarke to stay as long as she wanted and fresh coffee already in the press.

The second was on Thursday. Lexa had had a particularly hard day at work, an unforeseen technical issue with a new model MRI that was to be released the following year had been the root of the stress. When Lexa had finally left her office around 10 pm, Clarke was waiting outside of the building with Chinese takeout and an offered backrub. They fell asleep on the couch, papers and sketch pads and empty takeout boxes forgotten on the coffee table for another day.

In the morning, Clarke woke with Lexa. Lexa made her promised waffles and they drank coffee on the island and did the crossword together. Clarke left a toothbrush.

The third was on Friday. Lexa made them dinner and they ate on the private rooftop terrace as they talked and argued and laughed, sharing their weeks with each other even though they had spent the better part of it together. New prospects at the gallery and the resolved glitch in the MRI. They ended the night with sex. The slow kind, the appreciative kind, the exploratory kind, before falling asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

In the morning, they went to the farmer’s market in the East Village and Clarke picked out plants for the apartment while Lexa found produce for dinner. When they got back, they spent the day in their PJs, Lexa pouring over her endless amounts of work while Clarke sketched. When Lexa fell asleep on the couch, Clarke sketched her. The way the ever persistent crease between her brow seemed to dissipate and how her hair fell like a protective cloak over one shoulder. And when she woke with a start from a nightmare, Clarke assured her everything would be alright and the sigh Lexa released conveyed that she believed her.

That night, Lexa attempted to teach Clarke how to cook a simple eggplant parmesan, which went terribly awry. They ended up ordering pizza and drinking beer and playing Scrabble in bed in nothing but their underwear and old tees. They talked about school and travel and argued over classic movies and the best pizza in the city.

When Clarke kissed the spot between Lexa’s brow and Lexa rubbed her hand between Clarke’s back dimples, they could forget about the past and the future. Because they had that moment. That simple, easy moment. It was so mundanely simple, so effortlessly easy, that one would forget that there was something more afoot.

And Clarke realized maybe she didn’t hate sleepovers so much after all.

* * *

Floor Plan:

 

Living/Dining/Kitchen:

Master Bedroom/Bathroom:


	10. Skinny Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I've been gone a while. I'm so sorry about, life gets in the way sometimes! I did make this chapter a little longer to make it up to you all, though! I hope y'all enjoy!

_One month later…_

Clarke woke with the Monday sun peeking into the room, the smell of coffee in the air, and the shower running in the adjacent bathroom.

In the past month, two things had become blisteringly apparent:

One, she and Lexa had fallen prey to the worst queer woman trope imaginable: U-hauling. Though Clarke still had her apartment and she didn’t spend _every_ night at Lexa’s, she had essentially moved in. She had a section of the closet to herself--which was growing more and more as the weeks passed-- her extensive book collection now littered every conceivable surface and space, and she even had her way with a growing plant family. The only thing she kept separate was her art, which remained in her old place. Lexa had suggested that they convert the guest bedroom into a studio for her, but Clarke wasn’t ready to share that part of herself. Not yet.

It was fast, even by the accelerated timeline at which she usually ran her cons.

And two, pretending to be in love with Lexa was easy. Too easy. As easy as breathing or walking or getting back on a bike; she did it intuitively and without effort. And sometimes, that made her forget why she was there in the first place.

Because being with Lexa was grounding in the best kind of way. She was steadfast and strong, a safe haven in a storm. She provided perspective and had endless amounts of wisdom. Clarke quickly realized that her favorite thing to do was debate with Lexa about every conceivable topic--from restaurant choices to movies to politics--because she listened and she cared and then she provided a fresh outlook that Clarke hadn’t even considered. It was enlightening and electric, finding someone on the same level as her. Someone who she didn’t need to beat, someone who simply listened.

And she cared, limitlessly, for her people. Clarke visited Lexa’s office once for lunch and Lexa knew everyone from the board members’ spouses to the people working in the mail room. She greeted everyone by name, asking about families and pets and hobbies. They loved her and that made Clarke’s heart melt.

Yes, she had her faults. She was a workaholic and opinionated and pragmatic to a fault. But Clarke didn’t see that. Because instead of “workaholic” she saw dedicated, instead of “opinionated” she saw absolute, and instead of “pragmatic” she saw realistic.

And Clarke needed that. In the mere weeks she had known Lexa, she found herself as she used to be: optimistic and starry-eyed, with endless possibilities at her fingertips. Sure, she was still logical and astute, but she saw things not just for how they were but more for how they could be. And for that--for bringing that back to her--she was grateful. Grateful for giving her hope when she thought it was no longer for her, when she no longer thought she deserved it.

Clarke felt herself getting too close to this. She felt her heart opening up to this beautiful, amazing, complicated woman every time she tucked a stray curl behind her ear or made Clarke dinner or showed up at Clarke’s apartment with Chinese takeout when she was engulfed by a new piece. Every time she laughed at Clarke’s dad jokes or made a sarcastic one of her own. Every time she called just to check in. Every time she talked about her nonprofit. Every time she quietly nodded her head or smirked or talked about her people.

There was a moment the morning prior on the couch--a lazy Sunday with Bon Iver playing in the background, fresh coffee in the press, and the New York Times crossword on Clarke’s lap-- where everything seemed perfect. Then they got to 76 Down and an impasse because Clarke swore the answer was “dope” and Lexa said it was “dolt” and they argued it for a good five minutes before Clarke snatched the pen and wrote down her answer anyways and Lexa said, “Oh my god, you are so stubborn! But that’s why I… that’s why you’re you,” and her pause broke through the precarious reality Clarke had crafted to separate her feelings from her duty.  

That was when she decided to find an out. To not con Lexa, to not hurt her, even if it meant losing her. But she didn’t know how to. Not yet. She had money separate from the mission, partially saved from previous jobs and partially from her gallery--which was doing well--in order to run. To start over. But by far not enough to help the team pay off the Chancellor. And she couldn’t just leave them to clean up a mess she felt responsible for making in the first place.

But she could bide her time, she could find a way. She _had_ to. For herself, for her people, for _Lexa_.

Lexa who had woken up early as she always did to go on a run without disrupting her. Lexa who always made coffee and breakfast for them before waking Clarke with a light kiss. Lexa who she couldn’t imagine life without even though that was the only option.

Clarke could figure it out, she could.

And maybe, _just maybe_ , they could have a future. She let herself hope--beyond reason or proof--that Lexa loved her enough to forgive and maybe even follow her wherever she decided to go.

That was why she had woken earlier than normal, her mind stewing over thoughts and plans, potential futures and impossible choices. She had a meeting with the team today where she could say that they were doing well and she was getting close but Lexa wasn’t the type to jump into things so they just had to take it slow.

And this was too much to think about before she had even had her morning coffee, so with a groan, she got out of bed and made her way to the bathroom where Lexa was humming lightly in the shower so as not to wake her.

Clarke stripped down and opened the shower door and Lexa had that doe-like look on her face that Clarke adored before it settled into a content smile. Clarke smiled back, giving her a once-over in appreciation. She would never get over just how _damn beautiful_ Lexa was, all lean lines and gentle suppleness.

“Morning,” Clarke greeted, stepping in.

“Morning,” Lexa returned with a once over, backing up a little to make room for Clarke, “You’re up early.”

Clarke made her way further in and stepped up to Lexa, who was now backed against the wall, and her smile turned into a coy smirk as she leaned in for a kiss.

“It’s worth it.”

* * *

 

They parted ways at the Broadway and LaFayette St. station with a kiss, Lexa staying on her train to go down to the Financial District and Clarke changing to go over to her gallery in Brooklyn.

(Clarke would gloat anytime she could that she had convinced Lexa to start using the subway system over taxis; claiming that it was more efficient, economically and environmentally responsible, and its usage was integral in maintaining everything that made New York, well _New York_ , to which Lexa would almost always shut her up with a kiss. And Clarke would never admit it, but that might be the real reason she would gloat in the first place.)

She made her way into the gallery but instead of opening up the space like she usually did, she made her way to the back where her team was waiting. Everyone was gathered--besides Octavia, who wouldn’t dare be absent from work-- and chatting in their usual spots.

“Alright kiddos, let’s get down to business,” Raven started immediately, in a rush to get back as well, “Clarke, you first. How’s it going with the Commander?”

“Please don’t call her that,” Clarke begged, her mind flashing back to the night prior, a red sash and that nickname and how they were used quite deliberately in bed, flooding her thoughts.

“Fine, how’s it going with Woods?” Raven acquiesced with a roll of her eyes.

“Slow, but good. She’s still guarded but I’m breaking down her walls. I think this one is just gonna be a waiting game,” Clarke said with as much conviction as she could muster.

“Alright,” Bellamy said, “Well I’ve gotten pressure from the man on high--”

“Or woman,” Raven interjected.

They didn’t actually know if the Chancellor was a man or a woman or anything about them really. All verbal communication was done with a voice scrambler and all money and information transfers were done through remote servers and accounts. From the first phone call, the Chancellor had been shrouded in mystery. But their intention, their goal, their desire--whatever you want to call it--was crystal clear: money.

“... or woman,” Bellamy acquiesced, “ and _they_ want this job done as quickly as possible. Clarke, is there anything you can think of to speed up the timeline?”

Clarke leaned back in her chair, contemplating her options. She had to give them something viable or possible but the timeline was short as it was.

“Maybe a trip away, just the two of us? That usually seems to do the trick,” Clarke suggested, referring to previous jobs.

A trip made her targets realize how much they cared for her, relied on her, and enjoyed her company. She had planned romantic road trips and wine tours and retreats, whatever would make her target realize that she knew them better than anyone else in the world. Cage, for example, she took on a day trip to Portland. They went shopping and traversed the city in a beautiful vintage convertible for the world to see. So that he could show off his wealth and her. Then they finished the trip with dinner in a five-star restaurant, the chef personally coming to check on them, and Cage gleamed and gloated as if he won first place at the county fair. _Pig_.

And this trip could be the best option. It could give her the time she needed with Lexa, away from her team’s prying eyes and ears, where she could tell Lexa that  _she_ wanted to keep things at a nice and slow pace. At least until she came up with a more permanent plan.

“Alright, let us know what you come up with. Harper, Murphy, how’s it going with the little black book of secrets?” Raven asked, turning to the other end of the table.

“Slowly,” Harper replied with a shrug, “Woods is a girl scout. Business-wise, she keeps everything strictly by the books. It looks like her COO, Titus, has been skimming off the top but I don’t have any concrete numbers yet.”

“That could work, anything else?”

“Not much. Personally, the woman is squeaky clean. The only thing I could find on her was a charge for social impropriety in Morocco but her record was expunged.”

“Social impropriety?” Clarke asked. Lexa was the most decent and modest person she knew. Definitely not someone to be labeled or charged as “socially improper.”

Harper merely shrugged, clearly unaffected, “They’re incredibly conservative over there, even in developed, metropolitan areas. Something as small as showing too much skin or public displays of affection could lead to local government intervention. Regardless, she got the charge removed from her record but from the looks of it, she’s banned from re-entering the country.”

Lexa had never mentioned this before, of that Clarke was sure. When they were sharing dark secrets about shady pasts, the worst thing Lexa cited doing was getting detained by campus police for staying in the library past closing, and that was because she fell asleep in the stacks. At any other time, she would smile recalling the guilt on the other woman’s face.

“And did we find anything else about the ex?” Raven continued.

Monty spoke up this time, “Still under lock and key. Her records are completely sealed and if not for a picture of her and Woods at a college debate final, I wouldn’t even be sure she existed.”

That was the other thing that bothered Clarke. Whenever they talked about exes and past relationships, Lexa became guarded and cagey, her answers vague and incomplete. There was one big relationship, she had said, that ended before it really got a chance to begin. Family issues were her only explanation before she shut down completely.

“And Murphy, any incriminating pictures?” Bellamy asked.

Murphy was their jack of all trades, filling in the spaces of what still needed to be done. He was also their sleuth, following their targets in search of something, anything, that could be used as leverage. It was how they found cheating board members and shady, off-book dealings. Tangible evidence that could destroy lives.

“Until last week, her pattern and schedule were completely regulated. Run in the morning, sometimes coffee with Clarke, work, boxing, then heading here to pick up Clarke and going home,” Murphy said, sliding a memory card down the table for Raven to upload. Clarke felt her nerves revving up, the calm before the storm, that always came before the “but.”

“However,” Murphy continued as the photos appeared on the projector behind Raven, “instead of going to her boxing lesson, she’s been meeting with this kid in Central Park almost every day after work.”

On the screen, Lexa sat next to a boy on a park bench near the Alice and Wonderland statue. He was no more than fifteen, with charming freckles and strawberry blonde hair, wearing a navy suit with an insignia on the breast pocket. They seemed to be talking and Lexa wore that small, content smile that Clarke believed was solely reserved for her.

“Octavia didn’t mention a schedule change,” Raven said suspiciously before turning to Clarke, “Clarke, did you know about this?”

“No, I… no, I didn’t,” Clarke stuttered. Lexa had kept something from her and the betrayal hurt more than it should. Clarke thought back over the week prior and how Lexa still picked her up after here boxing lesson in her workout gear. Looking back though, she wasn’t nearly as sweaty as she usually was afterward. It was notable, obvious even, because Clarke remembered refusing Lexa entry to her gallery or touching her the first time she picked her up because of that.

How had she not noticed?

“Alright then, team,” Raven commanded, bringing the focus back to her. “Let’s do some digging. Murphy, keep tailing Lexa. This could give us the break we need. Jasper, you work near there. They seem to be meeting in the same place every day so follow the boy after they’re done. Monty, run facial recognition through any databases you can get your hands on. Harper, search for private schools in the area with that insignia. There can’t be too many. Bellamy, don’t mention this to the Chancellor in case it doesn’t pan out. And, Clarke?”

Clarke shook herself out of a daze, “Yes, what can I do?”

“Nothing. You know nothing, you’ve seen nothing. Business as usual. We don’t need her getting suspicious.”

Clarke nodded and excused herself as the rest of the team got busy typing away on different laptops and dialing phones. She made her way to the front of the gallery, busying herself with opening duties. Anything to take her mind off of the fresh knowledge that Lexa was keeping something from her. Anything to keep her from doing something rash.

Though let’s be honest. She was going to do something rash anyways.

* * *

 

Clarke was standing outside of the boxing gym with Lexa’s favorite post-workout snack--a green smoothie from the juice bar around the corner--when she saw Lexa exit the subway station across the street. She started to make her way towards Clarke’s gallery when she saw the blonde and her face went from shocked to irate to calm so quickly Clarke almost wouldn’t believe she’d seen the changes of expression in the first place.

“Hey, Woods,” Clarke greeted coolly.

“Clarke,” Lexa greeted with a close-lipped smile as she made her way towards the blonde. “What are you doing out here?”

“The gallery was dead so I closed up early,” Clarke lied easily with a raised brow, “The better question is, why are _you_ out here? I came to surprise you and your trainer said you hadn’t been in in over a week.”

“Yeah, I’ve been working late so I’ve been going to the office’s gym instead,” Lexa lied just as smoothly.

“And it has nothing to do with the boy you’ve been meeting at the park?” Clarke accused, the words spilling out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Lexa’s face remained stoic but you could see in her eyes the indignation before they cooled to glassy, green steel.

Clarke regretted it instantly, not just for the questions it would raise but for the betrayal it implied. She was hardly one to go about making accusations about lies and double lives.

“Lexa, I--” she started but the brunette had already turned away.

Clarke remained glued to the spot as Lexa walked to the edge of the street and jumped into a cab, going God knows where.

_Shit_.

* * *

 

Clarke walked into the bar, head held high. She nodded at Bellamy, in both greeting and thanks for texting her, before walking back to the booth Lexa occupied. The same booth where they first met.

God, that felt like a lifetime ago.

She sat down wordlessly, silently begging Lexa to look at her.

She didn’t though. Instead, she said, “How did you find me?”

Clarke expected anger or dejection or disappointment, but the emptiness of her tone was somehow a thousand times worse.

“Lucky guess,” Clarke replied with a shrug, trying her best at cheeky though her words came out blasé.

They sat there in silence as moments passed. There they were, two warriors at a stalemate; unable to move, unable to breathe. Neither willing to move back, to give ground.

“Why are you so cagey about the boy?” Clarke asked abruptly. Green eyes looked affronted, shocked that Clarke would even ask.

“Because we are all entitled to a little privacy, Clarke. And _you_ are hardly one to attack me for wanting that.” Lexa’s voice was cold, harsh, malicious. She had never spoken to Clarke that way. Even when she was angry, her words and tone were never cruel and it sent Clarke reeling.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that…” Lexa paused, her gaze directed over Clarke’s shoulder before returning. Clarke could see it in her eyes-- her beautiful, expressive, inimitably beautiful eyes--that she had closed the doors. Rebuilt her walls. “It means nothing.”

Blue implored and exhumed and pleaded with green. Like the ocean tide on mossy rocks, she tried her best to erode the barrier between them.

“Lexa--”

“Clarke,” Lexa interrupted, her whiskey-hazed eyes suddenly sharp, cat-like in their intensity, “What is it that you want?”

“And why do you assume I want anything?” Clarke rebuked, leaning into Lexa in challenge. To intimidate, to entice.

_She couldn’t know. She just couldn’t._

“Because everyone wants something and if they say they don’t they are either lying or a fool.” Lexa threw back her drink before returning her eyes, almost inevitably, to Clarke’s. “And you, Clarke Gilmore, do not strike me as a liar nor a fool. So tell me, what is it that _you want_.”

Clarke tore her eyes away, the intensity of Lexa’s eyes overwhelming, the accusation in her voice unmistakable. Because she was both.

She was a liar, intrinsically and irrefutably, and she’d never had issue with it until now.  And she was a fool, letting herself get swept into this. Into this false sense of security, this blatant falsehood she was calling reality. Letting herself get swept into Lexa and seeing an impossible future even for a moment where they had a chance, where this was not a job. Where they were just two broken people that found each other, that could fix each other, that could get a happy ending.

Clarke itched to tell Lexa the truth even if she was the one that would be hurt. But she couldn’t do that, her people relied on her for discretion at the very least. And she had seen Lexa was when she was slighted at work. She adhered to a “blood must have blood” policy. And this affront, this tarnishing of ego and pride, would destroy them all.

Clarke looked into Lexa’s eyes with all the sincerity and love and truth that she could muster, and said, “I just want _you_. Is that so hard to believe?”

Her heart broke a little--like a hairline fracture or a paper cut, barely visible and startling painful-- at how true those words were.

She pulled on her mask, one that asked for forgiveness and showed remorse; it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

“Look, Lexa. I wasn’t following you. Last Friday, I went by your office to surprise you but Octavia said you had left already to go to your boxing lesson. I figured I’d just meet you at home but the weather was so nice that I decided to go on a walk in the park. That was when I saw you with him. I didn’t know what to think so I went back to my gallery to get some space. And then you showed up like you normally did, gym clothes and all, and it was so confusing. I waited all weekend for you to say something, _anything_ , but you didn’t. Then I went by your gym today and your instructor said that you hadn’t been in in over a week.” Clarke took a breath and she could see Lexa’s jaw clenching and releasing as she digested Clarke’s words.

“I’m not accusing you of anything, and if it really is something you can’t talk about, I guess I understand. But I’ve dealt with people leading double lives in past relationships,” (mostly true, it was her), “and it has never ended well.” (Definitely true, and she was the cause.)

She sighed again. She had to mend this, even if to just buy more time. The Chancellor didn’t accept failure and the last thing she needed was for them to look into this, into Lexa.

“I’m sorry, Lexa. It’s not my place to ask about things you aren’t ready to share. I want us to get past this. Maybe we can go on a trip, just the two of us?”

Lexa looked at her, those green eyes returning to their expressive selves. They looked weary and suspicious, but also softer. “A trip?”

“Yeah, a trip. No more digging. No more mistrust. I want to make this better, make it right.”

Lexa seemed to be considering, her eyes calculating. “Alright.”

“Yeah?” Clarke could feel her heart returning to a normal pace as relief flooded over her. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Clarke started to get up when Lexa’s hand landed on her own. She looked up at the brunette, blue finding green as they did all those weeks ago.

“Clarke. I… I want to move past this too.”

She gave Lexa a small smile. “I’ll stay at my place tonight, to give you space. But coffee tomorrow? At our usual place?”

“I’d like that, Clarke. Tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow,” Clarke confirmed with a smile.

She stood completely and made her way to the door with another nod to Bellamy.

The crisis was averted.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if y'all remember in Chapter 4 that Lexa traveled to Morocco. Forget I said that! The story took a turn so we're just gonna roll with it lol. 
> 
> See y'all next time!


	11. Another Way

_ “Look, Clarke. I get it. We’ve talked about it before and I understand. Trust is hard, for the both of us. People let you down one too many times and you begin to expect it. That becomes the norm. I don’t like what you did but I understand why you did it. I guess what I’m saying is, I forgive you.” _

_ I forgive you.  _

_ I forgive you. _

_ I forgive you. _

That moment played over and over again in Clarke’s head like a broken vinyl. A time loop with no conceivable beginning or end. 

Lexa’s voice was soft, barely a whisper. Her exoneration of Clarke’s crime passed gently, like a gift.

Her hand, relaxed on Clarke’s knee, the opposite of how it was clenched to whiteness on the bar table.

But above all, Clarke remembered Lexa’s eyes. Eyes that shone almost too brightly with earnestness. So antithetical from their coldness that night in the bar that it was hard to believe they belonged to the same person.

_ I forgive you. _

Lexa  _ forgave  _ her. It didn’t see possible. She’d acted like a crazy person, even in their exasperated circumstance. A legitimate rom-com style, fly off the handle, steal a phone and comb through texts kind of crazy. And Lexa forgave her?

She simply couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Any sane person would have run. They’d only been seeing each other for just shy of two months. And while they had been an  _ incomparable _ two months, that breach of trust should have been irreproachable. 

She explained too, though Clarke insisted there was no need, who the boy—Aden—was. He was her mentee from the local Big Brother program and she was sponsoring his attendance to a prestigious summer program upstate. He’d lost his father to war, like herself, and she had grown especially protective of him. He didn’t feel like he was adjusting so he kept skipping to spend time with Lexa in the city. That was why she was so defensive, no one was supposed to know he was there in the first place.

Clarke could hear the fibs in her story, the twists in truth that could be found in excessive details and over-explanation, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care. Because Lexa had forgiven her and that was all that mattered.

After leaving the gallery that night, Clarke did not return to Lexa’s. Instead, she had walked; wandering aimlessly through darkening streets as she thought about how she could possibly have lost all sense of reason. She was a head-over-heart kind of gal, a person for whom logic dictated decisions over all else. 

She had been this way since the incident. When she’d let emotion take control and subsequently ruin her life. 

She’d thought she’d done it again. Destroyed the only objectively good thing in her life. Lexa.

Lexa who always saved her the last slice of pizza. Lexa who smiled with her eyes. Lexa who took all of the good and the bad in life and made it not only bearable but worth living.

Clarke thought about her “marriages”—if you could call them that—and the people she spent them with. Selfish people, greedy people. People who desired the perfect relationship but could care less about the other person in it. People who saw what they wanted but never saw her. Never tried to. 

And then there was Lexa, who even with only a partial glimpse, a shrouded view, saw Clarke more than anyone had before. 

More than a mother who projected rather than saw the person her daughter was becoming. Or a father who, for with all of his love and good intentions, didn’t see the darkness as well as the light. More than friends who saw a leader when they needed it and a scapegoat when they needed that too.

That night, she had wandered into an antiquated jazz bar in order to escape the late April chill. The dim lights, the classic cocktails, the morose music; it all lent itself to a Prohibition-era speakeasy atmosphere. And as Clarke sat in the back, sipping on her third Sazerac and listening to the tale of heartbreak spun by the singer, she made a plan. One she quickly realized she wouldn’t be able to pull off alone. 

She threw some money on the table next to her empty glass and pulled out her phone. 

“Hey, it’s me. Can you come over? We need to talk.”

* * *

 

Clarke was sitting in her studio, the clock ticking closer and closer to one in the morning, and sipping on a glass of whiskey as she mulled over her next steps, when the door knocked. She opened it slowly, only truly prepared to see one person at that moment.

There stood Octavia, hair still mussed from sleep and sex, wearing what looked like a Black Panther onesie from the kid’s section. Clarke would have commented if her nerves weren’t already fried. 

“Clarke, hey. Are you okay? You sounded stressed over the phone.”

“Hey, O,” Clarke started, looking past Octavia down both halls, “Come in.”

Clarke pulled Octavia in with a single yank and shut the door quickly.

“What the hell, Griffin? Are you trying to dislocate my shoulder?”

“Remember the night I met Lexa and you said I could talk to you about anything?” Clarke blurted.

“I… yeah, of course. Is everything alright? You’re starting to freak me out.” Octavia asked, sitting on the couch.

Clarke silently went to her bar cart and topped off her glass and filled another. She handed it to  Octavia and took a swig of her own before pacing in front of her. “I… I don’t know what to do. I keep running over scenarios in my mind. And I thought I had it under control, that I could figure it all out. But then Lexa said she forgave me and I didn’t… I couldn’t…”

“Wait, back up Griffin. Forgive you? Forgive you for what? Did you two have a fight?”

“Not really. I kind of confronted her about the boy…”

“You  _ what?! _ Clarke, you weren’t even supposed to know about him. And Raven said—”

“I know what Raven said. But if it wasn’t important, why didn’t she just tell me?” 

“She’s a closed off person, Clarke. We both know that. The real question is, why did you react the way you did?” Octavia asked. Clarke looked at her and that seemed to be all the answer she needed. “Shit. You’ve fallen for her, haven’t you? I knew something was going on but… shit.”

“Yeah. That’s why I asked you here. I — I know we can’t end up together. I understand that. I just don’t want to hurt Lexa. Not the way we’ve hurt the others. And I might have a plan but I need your help.”

“Why me?”

“You know why,” Clarke started, eyeing her friend who shifted and looked away. “Lincoln. I can tell you like him— maybe even love him— and if Lexa’s company takes a big enough hit, he’d go down with her. But if we pull off what I’m planning, you could stay. You already have an I.D. and the necessary paperwork, you could continue living your life  _ here _ . With him. You could be happy.”

Octavia sat there eyeing her friend with a combination of wariness and contemplation before throwing back her drink with a grimace and sighing, “Fine, you’re right. I’ll help you. But what kind of plan could you have possibly come up with that would work out that well?”

“Okay, so we need to make up the money and convince the Chancellor that it came from Lexa, right? And he was expecting what, a good fifty million? We just—”

“Woah woah, slow your roll, Clarke.  _ Fifty  _ million?” Octavia stood with a shake of her head and stood to refill her own drink, “Where the hell would we find that kind of money?”

“We’d have to earn it,” Clarke said with a shrug, sitting. “Did you know New York has more millionaires per capita than anywhere else in the world? We just need to pull off a few side hustles and—”

“Wait, wait, wait. Clarke, you’re talking crazy. A  _ few?  _ We’d have to pull off at least five smaller jobs and that’s not even looking at the logistics of it all. That’s not a plan, it’s a fantasy. We’ve never picked out our own targets and I’m guessing you don’t want the rest of the team involved so we wouldn’t have any back up. Plus the research that goes into knowing the targets… And the fact that you’ll be busy with Lexa, means it’ll mostly fall on me and I still have a very full time job as Lexa’s assistant. By the way, thank god you’re cute as hell because your fake girlfriend has impossibly high standards.” Octavia paused from her ranting and looked over, “Clarke?”

While Octavia spoke, Clarke emotionally and physically deflated, sinking into a chair. The plan was impossible to pull off, she knew that deep down. But hearing it from one of her friends solidified that in her mind.

Octavia walked over to Clarke and placed a gentle hand on her knee. “You know we need to call her.”

“Ugh, fine.” Clarke grumbled.

* * *

 

Around two A.M., they had finally caved and brought the whiskey bottle over to the coffee table when Raven stormed in.

“You want to what?!”

“Raven,” Octavia said calmly, handing her drink over. “Here. Sit, drink. Good girl.”

Raven did as she was told, but her Latina blood was clearly still pounding in her skull. 

She finished the drink off and held the cup out for another, never once turning her stare away from her blonde friend. Octavia poured it wearily, looking between her friends as if a battle were about to break out.

“Raven, I—” Clarke started.

“I told you not to get attached,” Raven interrupted, her voice unaffected by the emotion in Clarke’s, “We started this job and I saw your hesitation and I  _ told _ you not to get attached.”

“You know it’s not that simple, Rae,” Clarke tried.

“Well you should have made it that simple. One last job, Clarke.  _ One. _ And we would have been done with this life,” Raven sat back with a sigh, the energy drained out of her voice as she threw back her second drink.

Clarke was affronted. She’d seen Raven angry and sad and desperate and passionate. But she’d never seen Raven so callous, so detached, and the best friend she thought she knew better than anyone in the world suddenly felt like a stranger.

“Fuck off, Raven,” she muttered.

“Excuse me?” Raven asked, her voice getting louder, “What did you just say to me?”

Clarke saw Octavia flinch out of the corner of her eye and she was tempted to back down. But it wasn’t just herself she was fighting for.

“I said, ‘fuck off,’” Clarke said, her voice raising as well as she stood, “You keep saying ‘we’ as if this is for the good of the team; that  _ we _ can get out and start over. But what you really mean is ‘you.’ You’ll just drop us when we’re done. To be bigger and better because of all of your ‘potential.’ And you’re willing to do it at the expense of decent, innocent people who’ve done nothing to deserve what you want to do. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“You don’t know who I am?” Raven yelled, indignant as she stood as well, “I don’t know who  _ you _ are. The Clarke I knew would do and sacrifice anything for her team, for her family. And now what? You want to sacrifice  _ everything _ we’ve done— all of the progress we’ve made— for what? A good fuck?”

Clarke felt her angry rearing up in her like some uncontrollable beast. She was a second away from launching herself at Raven when a thumping underneath them caused them all to quiet. 

“Keep the racket down up there before I call the police!” an old Mr. Thornton screamed, his raspy voice making its way through the floorboards.

Clarke bit her lip and took a controlled breath, sitting herself back down. “I found someone who made me realize that I can be better than that. That  _ we  _ can be better than that. When did we decide that our survival was more important than another person’s? And how do we keep justifying it over and over again? I know I made a decision that night— that our lives were more valuable than his— and I would make it again in a heartbeat because I love you. But at some point, we have to say ‘enough is enough.’ We have to be better than we were. Or, at the very least, we have to try.”

Raven sat back, eyeing her best friend with a mixture of lingering resentment and contemplation. 

Clarke continued before she could argue again, “You said it yourself, Raven. I never ask for anything and I shoulder all of the burden. But I’m asking now: please, help me. Help me make this right.”

Raven stared at her with unprecedented stillness, likely running scenarios and risk analyses in that engineering brain of hers, before her eyes stabilized in resolution. She sighed and threw back the rest of her drink, “Fine, we’ll  _ try. _ But if it jeopardizes the safety of our team, we’re back to the original plan. Got it?”

“Of course,” Clarke breathed, “I would never put them in harm’s way.”

And before Raven could object or Octavia could clap at their accord, Clarke walked around the coffee table and wrapped her arms around her best friend.

“Thanks, Rae. I’m sorry and I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anything for you, blondie. Now let’s get started, it’s going to be a long night.”

* * *

 

It was five in the morning, the sun was just beginning to peek through the windows and the three of them were running on coffee, whiskey and Chinese takeout. Clarke had turned one of her ruined canvases into a makeshift cork board, mapping potential targets they could hit, while Octavia did research on the floor. Raven was zoned out on the couch, typing away silently as she had been for the past hour. And every time one of them tried to speak to her, she would silence them with a grunt.

“Alright, so this guy might be a good target,” Octavia started, “Stockbroker on Wall Street, comes from family money and just divorced his third wife. He’s no Lincoln but he’s not bad looking, so that’s a perk, I guess.”

“Print a picture,” Clarke said with a sigh, “We’ll put him on the board. Oh, what about this one? Defense attorney who only works with the worst of the worst, currently on several high profile dating sites looking for ‘the one?’”

“Guys,” Raven started.

“Let me see a picture?” Octavia requested and Clarke turned the computer around.

“Guys.”

“Oh, Clarke really? He’s  _ balding _ .”

“He could be worse? He has a dog?”

“It’s a corgi, basically the most adorably useless dog in existence,” Octavia replied with thinly veiled distaste, “We might as well put a crown on him and call him the queen of England.”

“Guys!” Raven said loudly, “I’ve figured it out.”

“What? How to get this guy a natural hair plug?” Octavia asked sardonically.

“No,” Raven said with an eye roll, “How to get the money without marrying you off to J. K. Simmons.” They both perked up at that, so Raven continued, “You know how the COO, Titus, was skimming off the top? Harper sent me the data and I finally finished tracking the money down to an account in the Caymans. It’s a little under fifty million but it could work.”

“And you could get the money?” Clarke asked, trying to keep the hope from creeping into her voice.

“Yeah, I mean I think so. I’ll need Monty’s help but I’m thinking we route the money back to a shell account in Lexa’s name and reroute it again from there so there’s a paper trail.”

“What about the wedding?” Clarke asked, “We can’t leave anything to chance.”

“Well Lexa hasn’t met Harper yet, right? Why don’t we have her come in as an editor for a bridal magazine and ask you two to pose for an editorial after Lexa proposes? We’ll have pictures at the very least,” Octavia suggested with a shrug. When she noticed her friends staring at her, she balked, “What? Lincoln likes rom coms.”

“So, I just need to get Lexa to propose?”

“Yep,” Raven said with a smirk, “And let’s be honest babe, that’s kinda what you’re best at.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet y'all thought you had seen the last of me. 
> 
> I'm so sorry to those who were following the story, life has been even crazier than normal and this kind of fell to the bottom of the list. Plus, you know, writer's block is a bitch. 
> 
> I hope this chapter didn't disappoint and I will see you all either in the comments or in a month <3


	12. Be My Girl

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” 

“Not a chance,” Lexa replied with a smirk.

Clarke itched to smack Lexa in the shoulder— a gut reaction whenever the brunette was being particularly cheeky— but Lexa was currently the only thing keeping them alive at the moment. She looked down again as city streets turned into treeline and mountainscape, blurring by in a sea of green, as they took the helicopter southwest to an undisclosed location. 

It had been one week since Clarke, Raven and Octavia found an unlikely solution to all of her problems. And that Friday morning, as the sun began peeking over the Manhattan skyline and bouncing off its many windows, Clarke went back to Lexa’s apartment and curled up against her and apologized again and said that they would be fine. And Lexa rolled over, her eyes still blurry from sleep, and kissed her on the forehead and said, “I never thought otherwise.”

Clarke mentioned the trip again that Sunday when Lexa ordered in their favorite brunch from Paola’s. They stayed in bed and did the crossword like nothing had changed and Clarke said, “So about that trip…” and Lexa responded with a acquiescent smile, “I’ve already taken care of everything, just don’t make any plans for next weekend, okay?”

Clarke remembered how her heart warmed slowly, a hot air balloon filling to the point that she thought she’d float away, before a bittersweet melancholy brought her back down to earth. She was always the one who took care of others— who went the extra step— and she’d finally found someone who would reciprocate that, only to lose her.

Lexa encouraged her to get comfortable so she pulled out her worn copy of  _ 1984 _ , occasionally asking for Lexa’s opinion on a particular quote or motif. They’d developed a symbiotic relationship in the half silence that was interrupted by whispered words and random comments, light touches and contented sighs.  _ Relationship shorthand, _ or so Octavia called it.

They’d been in the air for just shy of three hours when they began to descend over a lake. 

“Um, I thought suicide pacts usually required a unanimous decision?” Clarke asked jokingly with a nervous laugh.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Lexa replied with an eye roll but she reached across to give Clarke’s thigh a reassuring squeeze nonetheless. 

They were hovering over the treeline and following the wide river upstream when they came upon a house sitting back and up a hill from the water, tucked away in the trees. A helicopter pad sat on the water, connected by a pier to the private beach. It was absolutely gorgeous.

They landed gently and Lexa made her way around the pad to help a stumbling Clarke out. With Lexa’s hands on her waist, the wind whipping like they were at the center of a storm, and Lexa’s eyes sparkling with playful amusement at Clarke’s graceless exit, Clarke knew there was nothing to do except kiss her. 

And so she did. 

It was a kiss of rediscovery and forgiveness and renewal. Lexa wrapped both arms around Clarke’s waist, soft and reassuring, before pulling away with that curious wonder that sometimes colored her face for only Clarke to see.

They made their way up to the house slowly so Clarke could take in the home: a volleyball court on the beach, an infinity pool sitting on the lakeside of the house, and floor-to-ceiling windows letting in light. And the inside was also gorgeous— a warmer version of Lexa’s apartment in the city— with warm wood, steel beams, and concrete detailing. 

Lexa explained a few things as they walked: the house was kept up by a local family who stocked everything prior to their arrival, there was no cell service and even less internet because of how remote it was, and the twenty square miles of land— including that portion of the lake— was hers.

That last comment made Clarke realized: Lexa had a  _ lot  _ of money. It should have been the penthouse in the city or the private driver who occasionally picked them up(but who Clarke realized was always available), but the land and house that were occupied at most twice a year (and the helicopter it took to get there) were definitely the kickers.

They walked back to the master bedroom— with its California king bed and large fireplace and windows that made you feel as though you were still outside— and Clarke knew somehow that this place was more Lexa than anything in the city; more Lexa as she was on the inside than the one she projected to the world. 

“Lexa, It’s beautiful,” she said, turning around to the brunette who stood in the doorframe, watching Clarke take in the space with a look somewhere between wary and wondrous.

Lexa looked like she wanted to say something but held out her hand for Clarke instead. She led her back towards the living room to a framed blueprint of the house on the wall, frayed on the edges and discolored with age.

“What is—” Clarke started as her eyes traced the page before she saw it. Signed in the corner was  _ A. Woods _ . She turned to face Lexa again. “Did you…?”

“No, my father. Alexander Woods. I was named after him, you know? This house was going to be a gift to my mother, had they both lived to see it,” she said with a bittersweet smile, “He bought the land years and years ago before it had any real value, and held onto it even after she passed. When he died and I went to live with Gustus, this design and the land were some of the only things he left.”

“I’m honored that you’d want to share it with me,” Clarke said, taking Lexa’s hand.

“Well, I figured we’ve had enough of keeping things from one another, don’t you?” Lexa asked, so innocently it almost felt pointed; green eyes calculating for just a moment before they returned to that soft, questioning warmth.

_ It was a trick of the mind,  _ Clarke reasoned,  _ years of lying to the world will do that to you. _

She gave Lexa’s hand a tentative, reassuring squeeze. “Absolutely.”

* * *

 

“Lexa, would you slow down?” Clarke huffed.

“We can’t slow down, Clarke. If we do, we’ll miss the sunrise.” Lexa said for probably the tenth time that morning.

Clarke was currently on a mountain, being dragged by her girlfriend up a trail in the dark. The night prior, they had played strip poker and the final bet was either sleeping in until noon or a sunrise hike. (You can guess who won.)

“But the sun rises every damn day. Actually, I think there is an entire Nat. Geo. spot for them. We could always turn back, you know. Find it on t.v. and watch it at a reasonable hour? We could even do other things besides go back to sleep...” Clarke suggested, using a tone that was usually accompanied by batting eyelashes and a sultry smile. Unfortunately, without it’s companions it was essentially useless.

“Firstly, Clarke,” Lexa deadpanned, “We are almost there so there would be no point in turning back. Second, the cabin doesn’t have a t.v. And third, you won’t want to miss this sunrise, trust me.”

Lexa threw a smile over her shoulder— the whites of her teeth shining from the slowing brightening dark— as she continued to pull Clarke up the mountain. 

Clarke continued to grumble to which she received a few low chuckles but they were otherwise silent for the final ten minutes of their hike. 

“We’re here,” Lexa said, stopping at a peak. The sun was just beginning to make its appearance— shades of blue and purple shifting to oranges and pinks— as they settled on a large, fallen tree and Lexa handed Clarke the water she’d been smart enough to bring.

It was beautiful, Clarke could admit— her artist’s eye already memorizing the colors blending together in an effort to replicate the scene later— but that would mean admitting that it was worth it, and Clarke was hardly ready to give Lexa the satisfaction. 

They sat silently for a moment, watching and waiting as the world around them began to awaken, before Lexa interrupted it.

“Do you remember the night we met? And you took me to the Queensboro Bridge and told me about your parents?” she asked, her gaze still directed outwards.

“Of course,” Clarke replied, glancing over, “I opened up to you that night in ways I haven’t with anyone in years. And you  _ listened _ . I think that’s when I knew I was falling for you.”

“Yeah, well,” Lexa said, shifting and unnaturally fidgety, before clearing her throat and making eye contact with Clarke, “I trusted  _ you _ that night in ways I haven’t in years, as well. It was easy, so easy I was almost scared of it.”

Clarke smiled a little before laying her head on Lexa’s shoulder. “Thank you for trusting me,” she muttered.

“The reason I brought you up here,” Lexa continued, almost as if reciting something practiced in her head, “Is because like that bridge, this place holds significance for me. This is where my parents met and… the place where father proposed to my mother.”

Clarke startled, her head popping off of Lexa’s shoulder as she turned to see Lexa slowly standing and kneeling to face her, her green eyes warm and hair glowing auburn in the light of the sunrise.

“Oh, my god,” she whispered.

“Clarke,” Lexa said, taking Clarke’s hand, “You are… witty and funny and kind. And so damn stubborn it drives me crazy. But you’re also passionate and  _ compassionate  _ and… probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You make me want to be better and see more and strive to live my life as fully as you live yours. Everyday is an adventure with you and I want to spend the rest of my life discovering the world with you by my side.”

Lexa paused and took a breath before presenting a four carat, green sapphire ring, and looking back up at Clarke with like-colored eyes, “I guess what I’m saying is, will you marry me?”

* * *

 

Time moved differently and reality shifted, the change almost tangible like salt on the tongue when one was near the ocean. 

Clarke felt it in the way Lexa glanced over her sun-warmed skin when they took the boat out that afternoon and how Lexa’s bronzed skin somehow gleamed even more as she exited the water. She felt it when Lexa snuck a cool, wet hand up Clarke’s side, making her squirm, before pulling her into the water as well. She felt it when they both came up for air and it felt more like breathing in the universe than mere oxygen.

Clarke felt it in the weight of the ring on her finger, a comforting presence she was already familiar with.

And that night, she felt it when they made slow, appreciative love in the hot tub; when she heard the crickets dancing and felt the stars watching and smelled the logs burning in the fire. 

It felt like a slow, graceful descent into forever.

* * *

 

The next morning, Clarke woke to the sun filtering through the trees and birds singing outside, replacing the city noise she was accustomed to. 

Even stranger was the fact that the brunette was still asleep beside her, dozing peacefully as the sun lit her curly, face-framing tendrils into a halo. She rarely woke up to Lexa’s presence as she usually went on a run or cooked breakfast or had a work emergency. Lexa was like the city in that way: always moving, always present.

And out here? With its glimmering lake and quiet contemplation and nonexistent time? She saw Lexa in an entirely new light.

Lexa woke up so slowly and subtly that it was hardly noticeable: a change in breath, a tightening around the eyes. And as green eyes opened— still droopy from sleep— she grumbled, “You’re staring at me.”

“I like seeing you like this,” Clarke replied lowly as she leaned in to press a peck on her temple, “It’s rare.”

Lexa smiled up at her before glancing over her shoulder at the clock, “It’s late.”

And before Clarke could stop the moment from being shattered, Lexa was up and in the shower and the bed felt instantly colder than it should. 

Clarke sighed and fell back into her pillow, holding her hand up so that the light hit the gem resting on her finger. The color as it hit the light reminded Clarke distinctly of Lexa’s eyes in the sunlight: cunning and sharp and full of depth.

Clarke thought back to the morning prior. How she’d stupidly brought up their fight even as she berated herself internally; it bothered her more than she realized, how quickly Lexa forgave her. And she remembered Lexa’s response vividly:

_ “Our fight was actually what made me realize that I wanted to marry you. Because after you left the bar, I was angrier at myself for hiding something from you than I actually was  _ at _ you. That’s not a sane or rational reaction but neither is love. I love you, Clarke, and I want the world to know. I don’t want to waste another moment not being married to you. _

It was heartwarming and heartbreaking, to the point where Clarke’s eyes were blurred from tears and a smile as bright as the sunrise; she could barely mumble out a “yes” as she buried her face into Lexa shoulder.

It was the best moment of Clarke’s life and the thought that it wasn’t real destroyed her.

She shook herself out of her melancholy and made the executive decision to do something nice for Lexa and went into the kitchen to attempt breakfast. 

_ To do something nice. For her fiance. _

Which was exactly what she planned to say when Lexa reacted to a scream and came out to find scrambled eggs burning on the stove, pancake batter half-spilled on the counter and bacon grease splattering uncontrollably from a too-hot pan.

Clarke stood back from the stove, spatula wielded like a sword, a look of terror on her face.

“I… hope you like your bacon extra crispy?” Clarke attempted pathetically instead.

Lexa’s eyes hopped from Clarke’s face to the pans to the counter and back Clarke’s face and her shock morphed into amusement as she began to laugh, slowly at first but then more uncontrollably. Clarke had never seen Lexa like this— her laugh uninhibited, her smile as wide as her face— and found herself laughing too.  

Lexa was still chuckling as she made her way around the island slowly and taking the spatula from Clarke’s hand. 

“Want to make the coffee?” Lexa asked, her eyes still sparkling with amusement. 

“Only if you make my eggs over easy,” Clarke baited, taking a step into Lexa’s space. Lexa grimaced a little, a firm believer that over easy eggs were barbaric, but smirked as she rose to the challenge.

Lexa raised her hand to wipe Clarke’s cheek before showing her a batter-covered finger and sticking it slowly into her mouth. Clarke watched as Lexa swallowed slowly and felt a heat at her center as her mouth dried. 

“I think that can be arranged,” Lexa said, her smirk still firmly in place, and stepped around Clarke to turn off the burners.

Clarke felt the cool air hit her flushed cheeks and she took a calming breath. “Fucking tease,” she muttered as she made her way over to the coffee station.

She heard Lexa laugh again, “You love it.”

Lexa started humming lowly and Clarke looked over her shoulder to see Lexa dutifully cleaning up Clarke’s mess.

“You have no idea.”

* * *

 

Clarke grabbed her phone from the bedroom as the coffee brewed. It was the first time she’d touched the thing since arriving at the lake house, but she and Lexa had a tradition of doing the crossword whenever they ate in for brunch and she was hardly going to end that now.

She went back to the kitchen and made up two coffees, one black for Lexa and the other doctored with more cream and sugar than she knew Lexa deemed healthy for herself.

“Want to eat on the deck?” Clarke asked, handing the dark mug over, “It’s beautiful out.”

“Thanks. And sure. Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll bring everything out when it’s done,” Lexa said with a smile.

“Sure,” Clarke replied, kissing her lightly on the cheek and grabbing her mug.

She’d just gotten outside when her phone began ringing.

_ Raven Vasquez. _

“Hey, Ray. You will not believe what happened yesterday,” Clarke started excitedly as she leaned on the railing, holding her hand out to look at the ring again.

“Clar— Clarke can you— ear me? I— been trying to reach you.” Raven’s garbled voice came through the phone.

“Raven? I have absolutely no bars out here. Hello?” she tried again.

“Clarke, it’s ab— Lexa.” 

“What? What about Lexa?” she asked, lowering her tone.

“Jasper foll— Anya. We’ve be— made.”

“Followed Anya? Followed her where?”

“To the F.B.I. Clarke— the F.B.I. We’re total— fucked.”

The phone fell away from her face as the call dropped and she turned to face the window. She felt winded, as though all of the air in her lungs had evacuated, leaving only a shell of a person.

Lexa was at eye level with the tray she was bringing out, turning a flower in a small vase. When she glanced up to Clarke’s stare, she gave her a small smile before returning to the task at hand.

“Fuck.”

* * *

 

The ring:

The house: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun, Dun, DUUUNNNNN. Who saw that coming? 
> 
> Hope y'all are enjoying, see you in a month or in the comments ;)
> 
> Also, I started another fic based on my fave gay rom com, Imagine Me & You! Go check it out if you have time :)


	13. Femme Fatale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, welcome back! This chapter is a little shorter (forgive me) but the next one will be longer to make up for it.
> 
> Listen to King Princess' cover of "Femme Fatale" for the latter part of the chapter if you want to be in my headspace. 
> 
> Thank you lovelies, have an amazing rest of your weekend.

“Someone explain to me what the fuck is going on,” Clarke demanded, storming into the backroom of her gallery with a vengeance.

She’d barely made it through the weekend; playing a doting fiance became much more difficult when you knew you were getting played too. Every touch was an internal battle not to cringe, every sideways smile cut instead of soothed. 

Lexa noticed(of course she did) but Clarke played it off as coming down with something— hoping that would placate the brunette, at least momentarily. 

Her team members looked up from their respective positions, looks of fear and respect coloring their faces; this was the Clarke they remembered. Fiery, unstoppable. A force to reckoned with.

And that was how she wanted them to see her. Because if they knew that her heart was shattering and that all she wanted was to break down… well, she wouldn’t be a very good leader then, would she?

Clarke took her seat, signaling for everyone else to do the same.

“Where are Octavia and Murphy?”

“Working and keeping an eye on Lexa,” Bellamy said as he sat down across from her, “We need to keep up appearances. And as of right now, we have the upper hand. We just need to figure out how to use it to our advantage. Honestly, I think Raven should be there, too.”

“And I told you, Bellamy, I’m more useful here,” Raven rebuffed. “Besides, a girl is allowed a sick day every once in a while.”

“But Anya just saw—”

“Guys,” Clarke interrupted, “What do we know and how do we know it?”

“Well Anya was at my place on Friday,” Raven started, casting a sideways glance at Bellamy, “She’d been acting kinda weird all week and I thought maybe she was helping Lexa plan the engagement or something. By the way, congrats I guess?”

“Keep going,” Clarke waved her off, careful to keep her left hand firmly under the table.

“Raven had me hack her Apple Watch,” Monty continued in her stead, “giving us access to her location, including altitude, and microphone. We tracked her to the FBI after she left Saturday; to the white collar crime and fraud floor if my measurements are correct. Her watch recorded some of what was said and sent it as a memo before self-deleting. A lot of it is gibberish because the microphone is meant to be talked into directly, but I sifted through it and this is what I got.”

He handed his tablet over to Clarke and she skimmed it quickly.  _ Agent Snow. Williams. Lexa. Proposing. Clarke. Almost got him. Clueless. Proof of life. No deal. _

Him? Proof of life?

Clarke pushed the tablet back across the table, her mind going a hundred miles an hour and in just as many directions. 

What do we do? How can we get out of this? Why would the FBI get civilians involved? Whose life hung in the balance? 

The team watched her patiently, the cogs in her mind working almost visibly as formulated a plan, and almost jolted when she jumped into action, directing her team with a firm hand.

“Harper, I need you to do more digging into Lexa’s ex, I think she might be the key to all of this. Jasper, get Murphy back here; I need you two to keep tabs on Agent Snow and Agent Williams. We know what unit they work in so learning a little more about them shouldn’t be too hard. Just be careful and don’t engage. Bellamy, make sure we are ready to go at a moment’s notice and  _ don’t _ mention any of this to the Chancellor. As far as he’s concerned, everything is on track. Monty and Raven? Can I speak to you in private? There’s something I need you to do.”

As everyone dispersed, Clarke gave Raven and Monty their assignment. When she was done, she went over to Bellamy.

“Clarke, what are you planning here?” Bellamy asked quietly. “Are we going to run?”

“No,” Clarke said with a shake of her head, “We’re going to deal.”

* * *

A week flew by in a heartbeat as pieces fell into place. Clarke stayed away from Lexa as much as possible, claiming that a new artist was taking up her time.

Meanwhile, Harper went to Columbia after they ran out of digital trails to follow and decided to go directly to the source. There they learned more about Costia, a foreign exchange student and daughter of a politician in Morocco. She was a political science major with an interest in philosophy and helped organize a club that taught refugees English. Old professors described her as kind, brilliant and driven and Clarke couldn’t help the swell of jealousy at the information.

Jasper and Murphy followed the lives of the F.B.I. agents they’d been assigned to, which were relatively bland until they left work together Friday and rather than head to their usual places, got on a train going upstate. Jasper called to say they were at a farm but couldn’t get closer to see what they were doing there.

Bellamy had flights and new identities arranged for everyone while Octavia tracked Lexa’s movements, though Octavia herself lacked her usual fire. Clarke knew without being told that it was Lincoln, whom she didn’t want to betray or leave behind, but also couldn’t tell anything to for risk of exposing the team. She was, for lack of a better phrase, caught between two worlds.

Raven and Monty had been hard at work, locked in her apartment surrounded by computers and pizza boxes as the clock counted down.

And when Clarke got a text that Friday saying “we did it” she texted Lexa, telling her to come straight home after work. 

It was time to end this.

* * *

“Clarke, I got your text. Are you here?” Lexa called from downstairs and into the dimly-lit space, the door closing behind her. 

Clarke made her way around the top few steps of the spiral staircase, stopping so that she was in direct view of the front door.

“Welcome home, Ms. Woods,” Clarke replied, her voice gravelly as she pulled Lexa’s gaze upwards. She saw Lexa’s jaw drop— literally— and it didn’t take a genius to know why.

Clarke stood on the glass staircase in a black lace two-piece set, complete with a garter, suspenders, and black heels.  Her hair was blown out into waves— a rarity— and her makeup was smoked out. 

“Clarke— what, I… What are you…?” Lexa blubbered adorably, to the point where Clarke almost forgot how angry she was. 

“Come here,” she commanded.

Lexa put her bag down before making her way up the staircase, all without taking her eyes off the blonde. She stopped a step below, giving Clarke another glance over(and stopping more than once at her chest, Clarke noted proudly). 

“Is it my birthday or something?” Lexa asked when Clarke leaned into her a little.

“Let’s just say that being engaged looks good on me,” Clarke said with a smirk before grabbing Lexa’s hand and pulling her towards the bedroom. 

The light of the city trickled into the room from the large windows, their shadows dancing on the walls. Clarke pushed Lexa onto the bed with a look that demanded she stay still as she moved towards the nightstand and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, holding them casually at eye level. 

“I thought we’d try something new, if you were interested?” Clarke asked, though there was no real question in her voice.

Lexa’s eye went from Clarke’s face to the handcuffs and back before she swallowed; she was never one to relinquish control and it was evident in her reticence.

Clarke let her lower lip pout a little as she crossed her arms, pulling Lexa’s attention back to her chest. “I mean, we don’t have to. I just thought it could be fun to try something new. You know, to thank you for last weekend…”

Lexa’s eyes darkened and she sat up to pull Clarke onto her lap, nipping Clarke’s neck in acquiescence. 

Clarke ran her hands down Lexa’s arms, raising goosebumps, before stopping at her wrists. She snapped the handcuff onto her right before pushing her hands above her head and forcing her against the bed with her weight. When they were horizontal, she looped the handcuffs through the bed frame and grabbed Lexa’s other wrist.

She leaned back a little, Lexa’s dark eyes questioning and hungry as she pulled away.

“On the mountain, you said you trusted me. Is that still true?” Clarke asked, her voice deep as she stared into Lexa’s eyes. 

Lexa searched her face, for what Clarke didn’t know. All she knew was she wanted to hear Lexa say it.

“Do you?” she asked again with more insistence.

“I… of course I do, Clarke,” Lexa said with the same conviction she had the first night they met, when she told Clarke that her gallery would be a success. Clarke believed her then and she believed her now, even though she knew the lie behind the words.

Clarke closed the other cuff and sat up. “Funny, I did too.”

Lexa’s face shifted from sure to confused in a second as Clarke made her way off the bed to the window, not wanting to look at Lexa as she composed herself.

“Clarke?” Lexa asked tentatively from the bed after a moment of silence, “Is everything okay? Talk to me. And maybe take the cuffs off?”

Clarke turned around sharply, “No. This is a conversation that needs to be had like this. I know.”

“You know?” Lexa asked, her head tilted as she tried to get a better angle to make eye contact with Clarke, “You know what?”

Clarke quirked a brow, just visible in the semi-darkness. She wanted the truth from Lexa’s lips, she wanted to hear it without asking. 

She knew the hypocrisy in her thoughts, in her actions, but a broken heart doesn’t listen to reason. 

She wished they were a normal couple with normal problems, that this was an argument about bringing up politics in front of family or a striptease when she eventually gave control back over to Lexa. She wanted, more than words could provide, a world where she was more than the con-woman she had been forced to become, a world where Lexa loved her for her and not to save someone else. Where their problems were nothing bigger than forgotten anniversaries and arguments over crosswords. Where happiness was in reaching distance and a reality, not some cleverly constructed lie.

Clarke sighed and grabbed her robe off the chair and put it on before taking a seat and turning on the adjacent floor lamp.

“Clarke,” Lexa tried again, “Come on, whatever it is I’m sure I can fix what I did wrong. Did Anya let it slip about the surprise engagement party? I know it was kind of crazy but I thought you’d like it.”

“Just stop, Lexa. Please, just stop,” Clarke begged though she kept her face impassive. She didn’t want to hear about the nice things Lexa would have done— the sweet gestures and kind words— because none of it was real. She had to keep her poker face though, she had to be strong. For her people, her family, they were all that mattered now. “I know about you and Anya. I know about the F.B.I. And I know that  _ you _ know that I’m not who I say I am, so we can both cut the bullshit.” 

Lexa’s face shifted from pleading innocence to analytical cynicism in a heartbeat and it felt like a knife to the chest. 

“When?” she asked, her tone flat.

“Sunday. Raven called, she hacked Anya’s Apple Watch.”

Lexa hummed in response but otherwise stayed quiet, likely contemplating her next move. Clarke had seen Lexa when she conducted her business; it was like watching a game of chess, calculating and sharp, each side trying to stay ahead and gain the upper hand.

And now she was using the same technique on Clarke, in the same bed they had whispered sweet nothings in just a week prior.

Clarke felt gutted, hollow. Any emotion replaced with a reverberating emptiness, her heartbeat felt like it was echoing throughout her like a shout for help in a cavern. And no one answered, no one cared.

“When did  _ you _ know?” Clarke countered, her voice hushed. 

“After our first kiss in the snow,” Lexa said blankly. 

Clarke felt her words like a knife in the heart. Is this how her targets felt when they watched the videos she left for them? Her voice cold and detached, her expression blank. She did it to make it easier on herself—to withdraw from the guilt of destroying someone’s life— and hopefully on them as well. But being on the other side of it, she realized that it only made it harder. Hearing the betrayal from the same lips that once said “I love you,” it was almost Shakespearean in its cruel irony.

She composed herself, her mask slipping into place with finality. 

“I know the F.B.I. isn’t after my team, they’re after my boss. So I need  _ you _ to tell me everything,” Clarke stated, crossing her legs as she leaned back, emulating dominance and control.

“And why would I do that?” Lexa rebuffed.

“Because we can make a deal and the people we care about can be safe,” Clarke offered. Lexa tilted her head to the side so Clarke continued, “I know about Costia. I know you are trying to save her. So help me help you and tell me what you know.”

She saw Lexa’s eyes widen at the name.  _ Checkmate. _

“Fine.”

“Good, start from the beginning.”

Lexa sighed before looking out the window, almost as if she was glancing into the past. “I met Costia Amahzoune at Columbia our junior year…” 

* * *

Clarke's "outfit":

 


	14. Just a Small Spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!! Please read the notes at the bottom, I have a question to ask you all!

_September 2010_

Lexa remembered the day she met Costia Amahzoune vividly, an image frozen in her mind like a still from an old movie. Leaves stopped in mid air, the noises of New York quieted, and all was as it was meant to be.

She was walking to class, books piled in her arms. Well, walking would be an understatement.

She was running late, a result of a late morning rush at the coffee-shop she part-timed at on 113th Street, and her father’s crisp, military-enforced voice echoed in her head as she zig-zagged between students, demanding she be on time.

She took a turn down another hall and, before she knew what had happened, all of her books were on the floor, as well as the papers of someone else.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Lexa apologized, her voice winded as she bent to pick up the papers first. She couldn’t help but notice the myriad of names and grades on them and she hoped she hadn’t just crash-landed into a professor.

“You know, going that fast in hallways this small should be considered a safety hazard,” a whiskey-smooth, female voice said— her accent thick but her enunciation perfect— as she squatted until she was at eye level with Lexa.

Lexa looked up and any semblance of air in her body seemed to dissipate.

The woman before her was around her age— likely a T.A. — and probably the most beautiful person Lexa had ever seen. She had warm skin, like honey, and large chocolate-colored eyes; her lips were full and her cheekbones were sharply exquisite. Her hair was hidden behind a hijab but Lexa knew without reason that it was beautiful too. 

“Yeah…” Lexa started before she realized she was staring and cleared her throat, “Um, I’ll try to be more careful next time.”

“It’s alright,” the girl said with a small, bell-like laugh, “There are worse things than getting ran over by pretty girls.”

Lexa pushed her glasses up her nose a little with a nervous smile, handing the gathered papers back.

“I know you,” the girl said with certainty, handing Lexa’s final book back so that they could both stand, “You work at that coffee shop a few blocks away.”

“I… yeah, I do,” Lexa muttered. She was mentally slapping herself, she’d never been great at conversing with beautiful women but this was definitely an all time low.

“Well it was nice to meet you officially…” she said, leaving the end open.

“Lexa.”

“Costia,” she replied with a gentle smile as she began to move around the stunned brunette, “I will see you around, _Lexa_.”

Lexa smiled; for once, she was happy to be late.

* * *

 Costia showed up at the coffee shop later that week, a novel by Kierkegaard tucked under her arm. She ordered a mint tea with a splash of honey and sat at the bar while Lexa worked.

During the cafe’s downtime, she and Lexa talked; awkwardly at first, though that didn’t last long. Lexa would soon learn that Costia had a way of making people open up; of asking questions and genuinely wanting to know the answers.

The talked about existentialism and business classes and the new student showcase; about Costia’s home country of Morocco and Lexa’s Uncle Gustus and his cabin in the woods; about Costia’s brother Aden and Lexa’s best friend Anya and how they both liked to stir up trouble.

Lexa told her sarcastic jokes and Costia laughed and Lexa swore she’d never heard anything so beautiful.

It became a routine of theirs for weeks and after a month, Lexa had her tea waiting with a note asking if she’d like to go to dinner.

* * *

  _January, 2011_

After three months together, Lexa learned that Costia’s father was high up in Moroccan government and that after graduate school, she was meant to go back and prepare to succeed him.

Lexa asked if that was what she wanted and Costia replied honestly, “No, but sometimes duty and family come first. Besides, wouldn’t it be great? To make change for the better?”

Lexa had nodded; she understood— perhaps better than most— remembering her father’s duty to his family and country; how there was no greater honor to him than serving a country that gave them the freedom to live as they did.

And she understood Costia— perhaps better than most— her desire for justice and change a cornerstone of her very being.

After that though, their relationship felt as if it had an expiration date; how could there be talk of the future when theirs was set in stone?

Lexa mourned what could not be but whenever Costia saw Lexa’s brow furrow as her mind thought of impossible things, she would rub that spot between her brow and say, “Ah, habibati, you worry so. We have right now and that is more than enough.”

* * *

  _March 2011_

For spring break, Lexa took Costia home to Gustus’ cabin in the woods.

Costia taught Gustus how to make her mother’s harira and Gustus showed her how to make his famous chili. And when Anya came by for dinner, they bonded over their love of horses and Anya invited them to her family’s home to ride.

During the day, they took Gustus’ boat out on the lake and Lexa would fish while Costia read Nietzsche and argued with the universe about his concepts of master and slave morality. And Lexa couldn’t even be angry that all of the fish were scared away; how could she when the woman before her believed more than anything that good and evil were not based upon your position in life but the life you lead in spite of it?

That night they laid under the stars and Lexa pointed out the constellations: Orion, the hunter, and Virgo, the maiden. She spoke about how Orion’s downfall was in his incessant desire for more and how Virgo’s hope for goodness in the world left her always wanting.

"I fear that will be my downfall, as well," Costia said with a melancholic smile.

"Why would you say that?" Lexa asked, looking at Costia's profile. She could feel the burden weighing on her, suffocating her, and she would do anything to release it.

She saw Costia struggle with her words, her eyes shining in the dimly lit fire.

"I... I hope for good out there, for people’s ability to change. I want that change for _my_ people so badly I can almost taste it," Costia started, turning to face Lexa. "But I also want you, to be selfish and to be happy. Don't we deserve that?"

Lexa throat was dry as her breath caught. Those were the words she craved, those words sent her heart soaring. She wanted to pull Costia close and tell her to selfish and happy, and to do so with her.

But she couldn't.

"You deserve everything you desire. But..." Lexa paused with a shaky breath as she turned back to the stars, "but, you wouldn't be _you_ if you put your needs first. I want to be selfish, too, but I couldn't forgive myself if I told you to chose us over them."

She could feel Costia's eyes on her and she was afraid she'd said the wrong thing.

But then Costia took her hand and guided her finger through the stars, spelling two words in Moroccan darija: حياتى ( _hayati)_ and .كنبغي ( _kanəbġīk_ ).

“What does that mean?” Lexa asked.

Costia turned on her side to face Lexa.

“My life,” she said, her eyes glowing warmly in the firelight as she ran her hand along Lexa’s cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

* * *

  _J_ _une 2012_

After graduation, Costia took Lexa to meet her family in Marrakesh as a friend. Their laws were strict, they couldn’t even stand too close together in public, but Lexa had never been happier.

To see where Costia came from, where she learned to be so kind and wise, where she grew into a woman with beliefs so strong they could hold up mountains; well, it was Lexa’s greatest honor.

And her family was nice, if not a little formal, and her five year old brother, Aden, was as much a rascal as she’d said.

Costia told her parents about graduate school at Harvard and they said they were proud. Lexa overheard, too, about the growing instability across Morocco and the shrinking faith in the current government. She heard Costia’s mother suggest that her father step down before things got worse.

And Lexa couldn’t help it, the spark of hope that was lit in her chest. Maybe their futures weren’t so certain after all.

* * *

  _August 2012_

Lexa and Costia moved to Massachusetts for their masters in business and international relations at Harvard, respectively, and lived in an older apartment on Porter Square.

They made the space their home, with Lexa’s old record player and Costia’s penchant for strange paintings and more books than either could possibly have time to read. And while their lives got busier and school got harder, they always made time for one another.

Unrest grew in Costia’s country as riots broke out, people protesting police brutality and corruption, demanding reform. Costia’s mother called and told her to stay past graduation, that the government was changing and when it was completed, there might not be a place for her or her father in it.

Lexa saw the conflicting emotions in Costia’s face— the joy of choosing her own future becoming a reality battling against the destiny and desire to change that had always been promised— but Lexa couldn’t help how her heart soared.

The spark had ignited a fire within her.

This was it, this gave them the chance at a future, one that Lexa could all but taste.

* * *

  _August 2013_

A year later, they were making breakfast in their underwear as they danced to “A Little Respect” by Erasure and Lexa got down on one knee with a ring in her hand.

That was how Lexa would remember Costia best, her hijab off and her curly hair flying around her like some wild creature; her smile blinding as she said yes; her laugh unbidden as Lexa lifted her onto the counter and stood between her legs and kissed her with all of the love in her soul.

That would be the best day of her life. And the worst.

Because that was the day Costia’s parents surprised her from Morocco. That was the day her life fell apart.

Costia wasn’t allowed to finish the semester, she wasn’t allowed to see Lexa again.

Lexa tried to go to Morocco to see her, but she was banned from entering the country— deemed morally improper— and she tried to write but all letters that came back to her were labeled “Return to Sender.”

It was like Costia never existed, even her library card was deemed a fake and thrown away.

After six months of questions and heartbreak, Lexa received a letter in Costia’s languid, loopy writing saying that she was safe and asking Lexa to move on, to be happy without her.

And Lexa did. Well, she tried.

* * *

  _February 2018_

Five years later, Lexa was living in New York. Her business had taken off at an exponential rate and she had found people she trusted to help her run it. And none of them knew or dared question— besides Anya— why she had closed herself off as she had.

She followed the news from Morocco, how the government had been overthrown even after the reforms following the 2012 riots, and how many of its officials were seeking asylum in other countries, including America.

But Costia never made it to the United States; some officials and their families were barred from leaving the country.

And the small flicker of hope that had warmed her chest once again diminished.

* * *

  _March 2018_

She went to a bar with her coworkers, a local watering hole that was far enough away from Wall Street and it’s associated suits that they didn’t have to worry about running into people.

This was her first time drinking with Raven, their new head engineer who was already making a name for herself within the company. She was quick-witted and sharp-tongued, with a new idea or innovation always at the forefront of her mind.

They’d just finished a round when Raven offered to get another, popping out of the booth before anyone could protest.

Lincoln had just started on a story about how he did the polar plunge when they heard Raven’s surprised voice exclaim, “Clarke?”

They all turned to see what the commotion was when Lexa saw her. A blonde— beautiful by anyone’s standards— with sparkling eyes and a quirked mouth. She stood with the confidence of someone who was used to being looked at, to being listened to; whether it be the stubborn set of her shoulders or the brazen way she laughed. And Lexa couldn’t help but be intrigued.

Lexa watched as she helped Raven gather the group’s drinks and quickly diverted her attention back to Lincoln’s story.

When they arrived at the table, Raven went around clockwise introducing the group to her friend before finishing on Lexa.

Lexa eyes found the blonde’s— Clarke’s— and the world suddenly seemed to fall away. Now that she could see her closer, she saw passionate eyes, blue like cornflower, and blonde hair, wild and bright even in the dimly lit bar. Her entirety, her entity, almost seemed to glow, in fact, as if she were somehow more alive than the rest of the place.

It wasn’t until Raven nudged her friend that she realized they’d been staring at each other, and she couldn’t hide her small smile.

Clarke joined them and her presence was welcome and refreshing, yet somehow undeniably familiar. She spoke of her travels and her art gallery and the passion Lexa saw in her eyes before now seemed to pour off of her.

It wasn’t until she quoted Steinbeck, one of Costia’s favorite authors, that Lexa realized she was interested and that interest— something beyond the physical, but the intellectual— felt closer to a betrayal.

Lexa felt herself withdrawing when Clarke challenged her to a round of pool, a glint of fire in her eyes, daring her to step out of her shell.

What could she do but get swept up? Swept up in this whirlwind of a woman.

* * *

 They left the bar together that night, the bourbon warming her from the inside out and making her bold. A lingering snowflake fell onto Clarke’s smirking cheek and she swept it off with her thumb. It was romantic and daring and enticing, and that feeling clung to her as they made their way uptown when Clarke asked if they could make a stop along the way.

The blonde dragged her across the Queensboro Bridge on foot, the snow picking up as the wind whipped against them, but Lexa couldn’t find it in herself to care. She realized that she would possibly follow Clarke anywhere, just to see life through her eyes. The beauty, and the pain.

When they got to the middle, Clarke held her close and quoted Fitzgerald and breathed against her neck, making her warm even in the cold.

She spoke of her parents, a darkness taking over her bright eyes, and when Lexa took her hand she saw the light begin to return. And that was worth every bit of cold she had to face.

When she dropped Clarke off, the snow was again falling, making the streets of New York look like some kind of far-off dream; and when Clarke pulled her in demanding a kiss, Lexa could do nothing but oblige.

It was a kiss of contradictions: warm and cold, hope and despair, past and future; all intertwined and making Lexa feel more alive than she had in years.

She backed away towards the cab watching the blonde walk in with a final wave before closing the door behind her.

Lexa stood there for a moment, taking in what had happened, allowing the warmth in her chest to spread. She had missed it, that hope that seemed to chase away the cold. It had been so long since she had allowed herself to feel anything, something as simple as a kiss in the snow with a pretty girl sent her world spinning.

But it was more than that, she knew; it was the same spark she felt with Costia. A spark that pushed the boundaries of reality, a spark that started and ended wars.

She smiled at the closed door one last time before getting into the cab, only to find someone sitting across from her.

“Good evening, Ms. Woods,” the woman said, a wily smirk on her face. She had dark features— near black eyes glistening with mischief— and an expression that implied she always got her way. “My name is Agent Ontari Williams with the FBI, and I’d like to discuss an opportunity with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. Thank you for your patience with this chapter; it is definitely a change of pace from previous ones! Apologies for any inaccuracies with the Arabic in the chapter and for the slight embellishment of the issues in Morocco.
> 
> Also, here is a link for who I was kind of basing Costia off of: https://www.instagram.com/indoanisa/?hl=en
> 
> Now, I have a very important question for you readers! I've played with continuing the rest of the story from Lexa's perspective. I've started writing two versions of the next chapter-- one from Clarke's perspective and one from Lexa's-- and I can't decide what to do. If you all have a preference or opinion, please let me know. Otherwise, I'll just go with my gut and that historically has always had varying results.
> 
> Thanks again for reading, you are all amazing for sticking with me this long!


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